


Believe

by veiledndarkness



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veiledndarkness/pseuds/veiledndarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things like this just don’t happen, not to guys, not to guys like him no matter what they’ve been up to, what they’ve done or had to do and maybe even wanted to…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the twd_kinkmeme on Livejournal.

His hand is shaking more than he cares to admit to and through narrowed eyes, he can’t look away from the little white stick. He can’t seem to unclasp his fingers despite his urge to whip the offending object clear across the cramped space of the bathroom. There’s a tiny bubble of a hysterical laugh caught deep in his throat and he swallows it back if only to keep the sound to himself. 

The television is blaring in the other room, the sounds of gunfire distorted by the shitty speakers on the stolen set. A drop of water gathers at the tap’s spout and plinks against the sink basin and as he squints at the stick, sweat beads down his forehead. He can hear his breathing, far too loud in the small space and his hand shakes all the more. 

It can’t be right, it can’t, it’s not…it’s not fucking _possible_ , things like this just don’t happen, not to guys, not to guys like him no matter what they’ve been up to, what they’ve done or had to do and maybe even wanted to…

The pink plus sign mocks him and he feels the surge of nausea rise up in his belly. As he leans over to his left and vomits weakly into the toilet, he thinks only that it doesn’t seem possible to keep retching like this, not when there’s nothing left in his stomach to bring up, not when he hasn’t been able to keep a damn thing down for the last month. 

Some heavy footsteps pause outside the bathroom door, the floor of the trailer creaking under the weight of them and Daryl closes his eyes as he rests his forehead to the cold porcelain rim, his heart slamming an erratic beat against his ribs. His stomach is bone dry and the sour taste in his mouth is a familiar one now, trickles of bile coating his lips. 

He mouths a plea that he be spared another round of vomiting and the footsteps beyond the bathroom door move closer, shadows under the edge of the unevenly hung door. There’s a sharp bang on the wood and Daryl feels the stick press into his fingers until his knuckles are white, the plastic ridges marking his palm. 

There’s a bark of his name, Merle’s fist rapping at the door with all the impatience that Daryl’s well accustomed to. His lips press together as he heaves his body up. He knows better than to not answer his big brother. With legs like jelly, he tries to move but it’s too late, Merle’s shoving the door open, eyebrows drawn down, scowling at him like he’s failed Merle again somehow, someway. 

Pleasing Merle is something he rarely accomplishes when he’s fully dressed. 

He stands his ground, his hand sliding neatly behind him, hiding the evidence of why his eyes are burning with unshed tears, why his stomach is twisting and turning, why he’s suddenly terrified. 

Merle’s eyes are raking over him, examining and studying him and Daryl feels a warm wave of anger flood his veins, but the anger is nothing compared to the fear, the deep, deep fear he feels. His fingers are slick with sweat and he can smell the tang of whiskey floating in the air, the stale smell of the bathroom closing around him. 

A small part of his brain wants to melt against Merle the way he’s almost never allowed to do, to whisper this secret that’s bigger than both of them and have Merle tell him to stop worrying so goddamn much and doesn’t he always look after Daryl in the end, hasn’t he always, while he rubbed his big hand over Daryl’s hair, petting him in that rough but gentle way of his. 

Merle’s line of vision moves to where Daryl’s hiding the stick and he tilts his head, lips pursing a little. “Whatchu got there, boy?” he asks and it’s a joke, a fucking joke by how soft his voice is. 

He tries but no words come out. There’s nothing he can say and he can’t think past his mantra. It’s not possible, it can’t be possible. He hadn’t been the best of students before he’d dropped out for good, but he remembered the health classes they’d had and this… _this_ , they’d never covered this. His fingers tremble violently again and the stick slips in his sweaty fingers. 

There’s a heartbeat that echoes for an endless moment and he can’t breathe as the white stick falls, falls down to the dirty tiled floor, clatters as it lands, and wouldn’t you know it, it lands results side up. 

Daryl doesn’t look up. He just stares, stares at the test stick on the floor, at the pink plus sign that had developed on it seconds after he’d finished using it. His breathing is harsh in his own ears, laboured and raspy, and he’s horrified by the tears that are prickling under his eyelids, sheer willpower keeping them from sliding over his flushed cheeks. 

“The hell is that?” It’s a stupid question and they both know that Merle knows what it is, but Daryl still can’t move his lips to answer him. 

His now empty hand moves and he’s gnawing on his thumbnail, breathing shallowly. His head is buzzing and he feels his stomach hitch like he might throw up again. He drags his eyes back up reluctantly when Merle invades his space, looms over him and there’s not nearly enough space for the both of them in the bathroom. 

“Answer me!” Merle growls and backs him up against the wall, Daryl’s leg bumping into the toilet as he goes. “The fuck is that, boy?”

Fear chokes him and he can’t breathe. His chest tightens to a small fist and he feels small, practically cowering in his brother’s presence, and even though he hates himself for it, it’s instinctive, no matter the level of shame he feels. 

“I…” Daryl’s grasping at straws but nothing passes his lips. He looks past Merle, at the pregnancy test and against his will, a tear slides down his cheek. He hitches in a choked breath and he mumbles out a jumble of words. 

“Say that again?” and Merle’s got one thick finger under Daryl’s chin, lifting his head up, bringing his eyes up to meet Merle’s stare. 

“Didn’t know it could happen,” Daryl pushes the words past numb lips and he sees the realization settle in Merle’s eyes. “Didn’t…” He falls silent. There’s nothing else he can say, the pink positive sign screaming mutely on the floor. 

Merle’s lips part and he stares down at Daryl, then, almost as if against his will, he turns his head and looks at the stick below them. “That ain’t possible,” he mutters absently, his finger still holding Daryl’s chin up, his palm coming up to grip him tighter. “That, that ain’t fuckin’ possible!”

Daryl closes his eyes for a split second and his head pounds, a bitch of a headache brewing between his temples. “Been sick,” he says, almost under his breath, “Too long for t’ flu now.”

“The hell is this? Think yer funny, boy?”

He swallows over the lump in his throat, dizzy and nauseated and exhausted. He wants to lean forward and rest on his brother, let him do whatever he wants in exchange, but just let him rest awhile, soaking in his brother’s warmth, hear that steady heartbeat he knows better than his own and he hates the weaker side of himself but right now, he needs Merle.

Merle takes a step back and runs a hand over his head, eyes wider than Daryl’s ever seen, and dare he think it, Merle looks spooked. “This ain’t possible, Daryl. Lord knows you ain’t stupid ‘nough to think that this…this don’t happen to men, y’ hear me?”

Daryl lets out a slow breath and he nods to the test. “I know that. Test says different.”

“Fuck what some fuckin’ plastic stick says,” Merle demands and he kicks the test viciously, sending it flying into the edge of the toilet. It splits and cracks in two places but Daryl doesn’t flinch. “I don’t give a shit what it says, you…yer sick is all, ate somethin’ off.”

Daryl nods silently. It can’t be right, he’s a man, he’s no woman, and men don’t get pregnant. Merle takes his nod for agreement and he grabs Daryl’s shoulder, pushing him out of the bathroom, his boot crushing the remains of the test as he goes. Daryl moves with him and he says nothing as Merle shoves him into the bedroom, nothing even as he lands, the mattress springs creaking under his weight and his brother covers his body with his own and his eyes sting all the more. 

And later when Merle’s sated, Daryl lies beside him, his head tucked against Merle’s chest. He’s looking at the ceiling and he trembles anew, his body wracked with fear soaked shakes. He knows the test was wrong, has to be wrong. It wasn’t possible. 

Men don’t get pregnant, he chants until his eyelids grow heavy. He wills himself to believe it. 

-


	2. Chapter 2

In the cold light of morning, he watches slivers of sunshine creep through the grime streaked windows. Merle’s heavy arm is weighing him down, pressed over his chest possessively, and Daryl swallows dryly. He’s fast losing his ability to hold still, he can’t hold still, not when his empty stomach is performing acrobatics. 

The mornings are the worst, he muses as he watches the sun creep here and there across the thin carpet. Not that the afternoons or evenings are any better, but the strength of his nausea in the mornings is enough to make him want to set up camp in the bathroom. 

Merle grunts in his sleep and shifts enough that Daryl can take a deeper breath when his tight grip on Daryl eases. He presses his lips to a thin line and the sudden rush in his stomach is enough warning to have him bolting off the bed and all out running for the toilet. 

And when it’s done, and he’s splashing icy cold water on his flushed face, Daryl feels that burning sensation behind his eyelids. He spits, gulps more water and spits again, washing the foul taste from his mouth. He’s clinging to the sink on wobbly legs and he’s fairly certain that he might faint if the spinning in his head doesn’t stop. 

Merle’s grunting and grumbling under his breath in the next room and Daryl freezes, a shiver running down his spine. Almost against his will, he looks to the left and sees the smashed and splintered remains of the pregnancy test still crumpled under the toilet. 

It’s not possible, he thinks. Merle’s right, it just…it just doesn’t happen. Something’s wrong with the test, maybe he has the flu or…or something worse, but he’s not…he’s not _pregnant_ , that’s beyond the realm of possibility. 

He can hear Merle calling him and he drags his gaze back up to look at his reflection. He sneers at his face in the cracked mirror until the look of fear slips off his features, until his panic slides under the mask of nonchalance that he wears for his brother and the world to see. 

Through a side long glance, his eyes wander back over to the pieces of the test. He’s kneeling and scooping the chunks of plastic up and he doesn’t stop to think about why it matters to not leave it where it fell. Merle’s stomp had shattered the majority of it and Daryl hisses under his breath when one of the shards digs into his palm. 

Blood wells up and he stares at his hand, listening to his breathing echo around him. The droplet swells and spills over, running a thin strand of crimson over his skin. That hysterical bubble of laugh is there again in his throat, pushing against the lump that’s choking off his breath and all he can hear above his breathing is the sound of Merle cursing as he stomps towards the bathroom. 

Daryl slides the rest of the test into his fingers, gripping the bits and pieces even as they dig into his skin, the slickness of his blood coating them. He steps to the side and moves out of Merle’s way, dodging him and nodding at his brother’s grunt. It doesn’t matter what he said, more that Daryl acknowledges it and as he hurries into the kitchen to dump the plastic from his fingers into the garbage, he feels heaviness settle over him, dogging his every move. 

The bits of the test slide into the garbage, white streaked with red and Daryl can’t look away from the tiny plus sign that’s smeared with his blood. He shakes his head and slams the lid on the garbage can resolutely. 

The test was wrong, he tells himself one last time before Merle emerges from the bathroom, his stomach aching and raw from the force of his sickness. 

-

It had been a mistake to let Merle see the test, he knows that now. 

Trapped, trapped that’s what he is and while that’s not a new feeling, hasn’t he always been trapped by his brother, he can now feel Merle’s eyes following him more often than not, that calculating look to his eyes that makes his skin crawl, that makes him want to stay in the woods until Merle gets falling down drunk. 

And they don’t speak about the test or the fact that Daryl’s still losing every meal he eats, or that he’s too exhausted to keep his eyes open late at night when Merle’s busy boasting about things that happened or didn’t. He tries his best but he’s heard the stories countless times before and the way Merle’s voice rises and falls is comforting and familiar, comforting enough to make his eyes slide shut, to make his head droop with weariness. 

No, there’s no discussion and when Daryl’s deep in the woods, tracking a deer, he has to use all of his energy to stay upright. His stomach hurts, he’s dizzy and the world is a blur of brown and green around him but he doesn’t dare return to their trailer without at least something to put on the table. 

He sees a flash of movement to the left and as he turns, crossbow raised, he wobbles, lightheaded, and falls back as the deer darts out of his line of vision. For a long moment, he only lays there, head in the dirt, bits of mossy grass tickling his neck, before his eyes begin to sting. 

He wants to cry but there’s a voice in his head, one that sounds suspiciously like Merle, telling him don’t you dare cry, men don’t, they don’t cry, nothing’s worth crying over, not like some weak bitch, and he scrunches up his face, swallowing the tears back. 

There’s nothing but a dull ache in his abdomen, a slow pain that spreads and dips into his sides, moving up into his ribs. Daryl licks his bottom lip and his hand lingers near his abdomen, hovering hesitantly over his shirt. 

It’s not possible, he whispers to himself, but he still lets his hand come to rest on his stomach, lets his fingers brush the flat planes of his shirt covered skin. He jerks them away with a choked sound and the prickling in his eyes only grows stronger. 

No. He forces his body into motion, move, just move and get over it, ignore it, and he’s back on his feet, swaying in the light wind. He won’t allow the thought, won’t let it complete because it’s not just the idea of the test being right anymore, no, God, it’s so much worse. 

Daryl rubs his hand over his damp eyes and shoulders his crossbow, shuddering as he moves. It’s not just the test, its Merle and it’s what he’s done with his brother and the hitch in his chest pulses with shame. At first it had felt natural and under his anger and shame and self-hatred, he still can’t bring himself to walk away, to run, run away from his brother and their dilapidated home and the things they did and still do, not when it makes sense to him and not when it makes him feel like he’s safer here even when he feels like he’s suffocating under Merle’s thumb. 

He scrubs his hand over his face, sniffing back his tears. He’s been gone for hours with only a few squirrels to show for his effort. He turns, faces the direction back towards home and begins trudging that way, shoulders slumped a little. He wonders idly if he’s crazy for going into town and getting the test in the first place, but that’s neither here nor there and all he can think of as he walks is how to figure this all out. 

-


	3. Chapter 3

It’s almost a miracle when he doesn’t have to run to the bathroom after every meal a few weeks later, and he prays harder than he ever has before that this is a sign of some sort, that the test was wrong and maybe it was just some weird illness that came and went. He clings to that hope, feverishly so, and though Merle once told him years before that praying to God was a waste of his time, he likes to think that maybe, just maybe, God heard his prayers this time. 

Merle still watches him though, those eyes of his that gleam with each emotion he has, and he’s not impressed by the fact that Daryl’s still exhausted most of the time, not when the amount of their food has decreased rapidly and his hunting is falling by the wayside, but he can’t help it any more than he could when he was vomiting over and over. 

It weighs on his mind, the little plus sign, regardless of the fact that he’s not throwing up the way he did for weeks on end and he can’t stop thinking about it even though Merle demands so much of his attention, can’t keep his thoughts from wandering to the test that he’d thrown away, those blood streaked shards of plastic. 

He doesn’t scare easy but the idea of this…it terrifies him. There’s a hunch to his posture, a defensive hunching of his shoulders when Merle comes closer to him and he has to close his eyes when he hits the mattress, even if he feels the familiar butterflies in his stomach at the feel of Merle’s rough fingers on his skin. 

He hates himself and hates Merle for it, but it’s ingrained, learned behaviour and he loves him, feels obligated to endure whatever Merle wants, and he’s never let too much thought wander in about whether or not he really wants this. And when Merle’s buried to the hilt inside of him, he feels something like peace under the shame of wanting his brother, something like understanding with the way Merle’s gentler with him when he’s deep inside. 

It’s in every inch of their crumbling home, in the way Daryl can’t hardly look at Merle without wanting to cringe and hating himself all the more for his instinctive submissiveness around the man, in the way that Merle’s been eyeing him, the way he’s taken to talking louder than normal, like the volume will drown out the naked fear in Daryl’s eyes. 

And at times when he feels like he can’t take another second indoors and he flees outside, he can still feel it, still feel the tickle of fear and unease coursing through him but there’s no one to see and he hasn’t been to a doctor since he was eight, so even when that thought sneaks into his mind, he has to push it away. 

He’d snuck away to town, swiped the test from the shelf of the pharmacy and stuffed it under his shirt, tucked above the waistband of his jeans in the blink of an eye, and even then he hadn’t been so sure as to what he was doing, if this was the right thing to do and that little hysterical laugh that comes and goes had surfaced then. He’s not a girl but when the sickness wouldn’t leave him, he couldn’t stop picturing the test in it’s little blue box.

That sour taste on his tongue is burned into his memory and the last thing he wants is to see some quack doctor and find out that he’s not a man, he’s a…a _freak_ because that’s what he must be if the test was right, and the thought quickens his breath, leaves him feeling lightheaded and not for the first time does he wish that he had someone to ask his questions to.

No, no, he’ll go on his way and this…this isn’t happening. 

-

But it is happening and it’s with banked terror when he feels the first flutters in his abdomen, low down, too far down to be anything else, two months later. He’s on the bed, dizzier than usual and it doesn’t seem to help. Stripped to his waist, he’s staring at the ceiling, trying to keep his thoughts calm, trying to be blank. 

His stomach is small, this side of rounded, and he avoids looking at it as best he can. He’s never been one for staring at his reflection in the mirror and it seems as though he’s not the only one avoiding the fact that his skin is changing, swelling ever so slightly. Merle avoids that area when he touches him, a flicker of unease in his face each time. 

It catches him off guard when he feels it, this uncertain sensation, like wings brushing over his skin and he flinches at the touch, his breath stolen away from him. It’s a nudge, a questioning push and he slaps a hand over his mouth to hold back the startled yelp that’s climbing up his throat. 

It’s not real, it’s not, he’s hallucinating, he’s lost his mind…and when he feels it again, the world spins around him. He can hear Merle in the area that laughingly passes for a living room and as he lies on the bed, one calloused hand clamped over his lips, tears burning under his eyelids, he feels a sick certainty that this is real, that he is pregnant somehow, in some horrible way, and that Merle will surely kill him once he realizes. 

There’s life inside him and he squints his eyes shut, panic surging and overwhelming his sanity. He can hear the door opening, barely, the sound dim over the sound of his heartbeat slamming in his ears. Merle’s in the doorway, he knows without looking. He can smell his scent, _feel_ his presence and that fear he has overrides the panic in a heartbeat. 

There’s movement and Daryl opens his eyes at the feel of the bed dipping. He lets his hand slide from his lips and he hates the way they tremble without his fingers to keep them still. He turns his gaze to Merle and tries, God he tries, to keep the panic at bay, to keep it from blazing out of his eyes. 

Merle, for once, has nothing to say. He stares at Daryl, stares at the way he’s lying on his back, one hand still clutched to his stomach and as he stares, he looks him over, eyes stuttering over the barely there bump. 

There’s a crackling in the air, like the moment before lighting strikes, and Daryl sucks in a breath through his lips, feeling the weight of the room bearing down on him. “Merle,” he says on an exhale, eyes shiny and almost too bright. “I can’t…”

“This ain’t right,” Merle says but his lips are hardly moving. “Somethin’s wrong with ya.”

Daryl runs his tongue over his lips, trying to wet them, but there’s no saliva, nothing to moisten them with and he feels a swell of panic rise anew in his throat. “Told you,” he mumbles into his chest, “That test I had, it…”

Anger darkens Merle’s face and he looms over Daryl, and though he fights it, he instinctively shrinks back from his brother’s wrath. “It was wrong!” he shouts. “It ain’t fuckin’ possible! It ain’t! You turn into some fuckin’ chick when I wasn’t lookin’, huh Darleena? Maybe I been right all these years ‘bout you bein’ a little girl all along?”

And he can’t help it, can’t help the rush of old fury at the way Merle has always taunted him and he snarls back at his brother, teeth bared. “Shut up!” he hisses, edging back from him, even if he is worried that maybe, God please don’t let it be true, that Merle _was_ right all this time, that he’s not a man, that he never was, and oh, how he hates him for being able to make Daryl doubt himself.

“No?” Merle sneers at him and one big hand has got him, shoving him right back to where he was. “Then what’s this?” his other hand is there, yanking Daryl’s fingers away from his belly. “Ain’t somethin’ men get, stupid! You got yerself knocked up, then that means you’re a bitch, boy.”

And he’s touching the small swell; the angry words paused at the feel of something nudging back at his hard, heavy fingers. The look on his face would make Daryl want to laugh at any other time, but no, not right now, because there’s Merle, at his side, mouth open, staring down in disbelief. 

He pulls his hand back so fast Daryl hardly sees the motion. “Jesus…”

Daryl wants to crow ‘told you so’ but the words are stuck in his throat. His fingers twitch, eager to cover his exposed stomach but he doesn’t move to do so, and he hates the tears that well up in his eyes, hates that he can’t seem to stop them from rising lately, that his emotions aren’t his anymore, and as a tear rolls down, curving down his cheek and back towards his ear, he sees something fragile in Merle’s expression, a look of something other than disgust or anger and it gives him something to hold onto. 

“How?”

He has nothing for that, couldn’t explain it if he tried. He shrugs, ignoring the second tear that falls, sliding a parallel line to the one before it. “Dunno,” he whispers and there’s a glimmer in Merle’s eyes as his big fingers wrap around Daryl’s for a moment, a rough grip of fingers wrapped around his own and he swallows over the lump in his throat, certain that he’ll choke if he doesn’t. 

There’s almost an apologetic feel to the way Merle’s gripping his hand and he thinks back to the nights when he’d hide in Merle’s bed, burrowed far under the covers, pressed as tightly to his brother as he could manage, terrified of being discovered by the man he was hiding from and he exhales a choked breath, gripping back on Merle’s fingers. 

He’s tired of being scared, but Merle hasn’t run off on him yet, and he clings to that thought, even when Merle can’t seem to stop staring at his stomach. 

-


	4. Chapter 4

-

If he thought he could ignore it, pretend it wasn’t happening before, there’s no chance of that anymore. The movements, those flickers and nudges of _life_ , the ones that only came and went every now and again happen all too often now and he can’t ignore them, no matter how hard he tries. 

And God, if he thought Merle’s lingering looks were bad before…Now he’s haunting him, following his every movement, muted questions in those hard eyes of Merle’s. It’s his silent scrutiny, his lingering looks and he’s pausing more and more when his hands get to wanderin’ the way they always do. 

There’s a hesitance to Merle’s hands, like he’s afraid to come too close to the slight bump that’s growing along Daryl’s abdomen, and the idea of Merle bein’ afraid of _anything_ makes him want to laugh. He doesn’t though, for fear that he won’t be able to stop, hysterical, cackling laughter that will end with tears tracking over his cheeks. 

He’s damn sick of how often his eyes fill with tears, of how often he finds himself struggling not to cry and he can hear Merle’s reprimands of how men don’t cry from his childhood every time his eyes prickle and burn with those hateful tears. 

He can’t ignore the movements, the kicks and jabs that leave him trying to stifle gasps. He has to fight the urge to clasp his hands to his swelling stomach when they happen, refusing to give in and touch the skin that’s stretching with every passing day. 

He avoids the mirrors, ignores the way his heart pounds just that much harder when the movements occur and he hates the way Merle’s staring at him, staring and _watching_ and he wants to scream when he sees Merle’s lips twist with unspoken words. 

-

They don’t talk about the way Daryl’s been eyeing their meagre food supplies, or the way that nothing takes the edge off his constant hunger pangs. A lifetime of not enough food (never been enough food) and he thinks that he shouldn’t be so desperate to have something more, but he can’t control the way his stomach growls or the way he feels sick most of the time. 

His hands shake when the pangs come and he’s not foolish enough to believe that Merle’s unaware of that fact. He doesn’t say anything when Merle disappears one day, sitting astride his bike, the rumbling motor a distant sound as his figure disappears down the dirt road, leading him away from their trailer. 

He hates the tiny part of his brain that’s grateful when Merle’s gone. 

Focusing on hunting, gathering wood, it distracts him the way he needs to be distracted, and he can pretend that it isn’t getting harder and harder to bend, to lift and to carry loads of wooden logs over to their wood pile. He grits his teeth, pushing harder, forcing his body to go just that much further until his muscles are screaming for him to stop, until those jabs in his abdomen grow too strong to be denied. 

The thoughts circle, more so at night and he watches the stars over his head while he tries to make sense of this, of what’s happened to him, of what’s going to happen to him eventually. He despises the word, refuses to think on it. He’s not…not pregnant. 

He scowls at the sky, fury licking at his spine. He’s not, he can’t be, and sometimes he thinks this has all been one bad trip, an extended bad dream, he’ll wake up any minute now and Merle will be there, snorin’ beside him, one big arm wrapped tight around Daryl’s waist. 

Fuck the test. Merle was right, it doesn’t happen to men. 

Except…those kicks are getting stronger. Except he’s hungrier than he’s ever been in his life and his chest is tender, achingly sore, and he can’t help but cup his stomach when he’s alone like this, late at night. 

He can’t understand it. It makes his eyes burn all over again and he sniffles, just once, as he tries not to cry. He wishes, not for the first time, that he’d run from this place years ago when he’d had his chance. Merle in prison, their old man long dead, he’d been alone, so fucking alone for damn near two years. 

And had he run, run until his legs gave out? Run until he found another town, another state? Gone anywhere he could get to and find a job and live, _live_ for himself and not for anyone else?

No. He’d stayed, a loyal Dixon to the end. He’d stayed and did what he’d always done. Worked here an’ there, paid under the table when he could find jobs, hunted and sat outside the trailer, watching the sky, night after night. 

He hates himself for staying but he’d known he would, even then. 

-

The purr of Merle’s bike wakes him the next morning and he sits up, thin sheets pooled around him on the bed as the noise comes to a halt outside the trailer. There’s relief and annoyance warring in his chest and he sighs, running a hand through his sleep mussed hair. 

He can hear Merle calling for him and he slides off the bed, his back twanging and protesting the sudden movement. His sense of balance is thrown off by the weight of his growing stomach, leaving him unbalanced at the best of times. The days of darting nimbly through the forest are a mere memory now.

Merle’s got some kind of wheeled contraption attached to the back of his bike, a tattered black tarp strapped down over it and he’s yanking at the bungee cords, a small scowl fixed on his face. Daryl pauses in the doorway of the trailer, still struggling to pull his faded flannel shirt on, his chest hitching at the very sight of Merle. 

The baggy material of Merle’s old shirt swims over his body and he grips the front of it, hiding the swell of his belly when Merle hears his footsteps. There’s the hard stare that he expects, the assessing gaze, and he drops his gaze a bit, squinting in the early morning sun. 

“C’mere,” Merle orders and there’s a quirk to his lips, a slight smirk that’s more like a smile. “Ain’t gonna unpack itself.”

And that’s got him curious but he knows better than to hope for good things, so as he’s shuffling over, Daryl side steps closer to Merle, his fingers stumbling over the buttons on the over shirt. The tightness in his chest is stronger now and he can smell the tangy sweat of Merle, the faint smell of alcohol that never quite burns off, that spicy smell that makes him think of the big brother that he’d idolized for so long and he can’t help the way he wants to rub his face against Merle’s neck, not when he’s torn between being grateful that Merle returned to him and the knowledge that he hasn’t got any hope of ever leaving.

“G’on,” Merle says, one large hand gripping the back of Daryl’s head for a brief moment, his rough fingers sliding over the wispy edges of his slightly overgrown hair. 

Daryl darts a glance up at him, cautious, and there’s a second where he feels dizzier than normal, before he reaches for the bungee cord closest to him. He bends a little and unsnaps it, releasing the edge of the tarp. 

He can’t breathe. 

There’s clothes, small stacks of them, what looks like blankets, random assortments of hunting gear, bottles of booze, a crate that’s filled to the brim with cans of food, tins of food stuffs that he’s rarely seen, and off to the one side, a small wooden object that makes his eyes water at first sight. 

It’s a cradle, a well used but still functional rocking cradle. 

He’s swallowing over the lump in his throat and a tear slips out, running down his cheek in a crooked line. God…Merle brought supplies, much needed food supplies, clothes that aren’t completely worn in, and…and a cradle for the baby, the one he hasn’t let himself think of in those terms. 

A baby, his baby… _their_ baby…

The tears are streaming down his cheeks and he scrunches his face up, trying and failing to hide the damning evidence streaking his face and he barely feels Merle’s arms wrap around him, holding him up when his legs sway. He’s clinging to Merle’s arm, dirt scuffed fingers digging in as he struggles to get his breath back and he can feel one hand moving down and cupping his belly, calloused fingers spread over the paper thin fabric of his shirt and Daryl chokes on a gasp when there’s a hard kick, maybe a punch, rising up to meet Merle’s hand. 

“M-Merle,” he snuffles, his throat clenching and unclenching. There’s gravel in his lungs and he can’t say it, can’t say it all and Merle just nods, his hand possessively holding Daryl in tight, tracing the random jabs and kicks that follow his fingers. 

“S’gonna be alright,” Merle mutters sometime later, his lips buried in the strands of hair that fall over Daryl’s ear. “Hear me, baby brother?”

Daryl nods, his chest still hitching in and out. Merle’s right, he’s right an’ it’s ok that he’s terrified; it’s ok that this is happening. He’s not alone; Merle didn’t leave him to face this alone. 

A baby…their baby…

-


	5. Chapter 5

-

Without knowing all the reasons why or how, he has no clue how to track what’s happening to him, leaving him to scowl at the paper with little dashes that he’s been marking on. His best guess is that _this_ happened to him nearly eight months ago and he remembers what he learned in health class, back when he thought that this kind of thing only happened to women. 

The paper is smudged by his fingerprints, well worn from being folded and unfolded every day. There’s no calendar in their home, no reason to ever have one. He refolds the paper and stuffs it under their mattress, returning it to its hiding place. There are only a few things that he doesn’t want Merle to see and things like this rank high up on the list. 

It’s with a huff that he gets up from kneeling beside their bed. His belly looks enormous to him, jutting out farther than he could have ever imagined. He winces and looks away, one hand drifting to his back to rub at the ever present pain that lingers there, pressing on his nerves. 

Some days he still thinks he might be dreaming. 

It’s the movements that he can’t ignore though, those flutters and kicks and punches that force him to stare in wonder at his belly. It’s the way that he sways a little when he walks, and how his hips are wider than he remembers them being, the way his chest is always tender, and how his nipples are darker and far more sensitive. 

He never bothered with mirrors all that much before. He avoids them altogether now. 

He can hear Merle muttering under his breath from outside the trailer, snapping him from his thoughts and dragging him back into the moment. The days are getting somewhat colder, the sun’s dipping beyond the horizon earlier each night and Daryl crosses his arms over his swollen stomach, knowing that the winter months are on their way. 

There’s a dragging sensation in his belly and he drops his hand to rub at his skin, soothing the movement. His throat clenches and he swallows until the lump there dissolves. His mind skirts the word but he knows, yeah, he knows it’s a baby, their baby…

His gaze lands on the corner wall of the small bedroom, the little wooden cradle up against it, empty and waiting. Daryl sucks in an unsteady breath, rubbing until the movement calms. He doesn’t know exactly how long he still has, there’s been no talk of goin’ to any doctor, (not that they have money for those kinds of things) and he feels ill prepared for what might happen but he knows what’s coming. 

Before the end of the year, sometime soon…

-

Merle doesn’t mention it, but he does disappear far more frequently in the weeks that follow. Daryl waits, denying his fear each and every time, and he does his best to prepare for the winter months. He can’t help it, this need he feels to make sure that their trailer is fully stocked with clothes and blankets, with enough food to get them through. 

His fingers itch to sweep up his crossbow. He misses the woods, the hunts.

The grime and grit that’s embedded in their home offends him to the point that he starts cleaning and he hates that he’s on his hands and knees, scrubbing at years of built up dirt on their faded linoleum tiles, fingers red and raw from scrubbing so hard. He hates that he cares so much about how run down their home is when this is all he’s ever really known. The house they’d had, the one his mother had died in, it’s a fragment of a memory. 

He remembers the worn wallpaper that had lined her bedroom, little prints of roses climbing with vines up to the ceiling, the way the lights never seemed bright enough, and the way she’d looked when she’d been asleep, overflowing ashtray on the nightstand by her head. 

And just like that, he feels his eyes prickle. Cursing as he swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, Daryl refocuses his attention on the now much cleaner kitchen floor. He expects Merle to ridicule him, anticipates it really, but Merle doesn’t have much to say.

Merle’s silence frightens him more than he wants to admit.

But Merle’s returns yield results and Daryl tries not to think about how Merle acquires the things they need. Instead, he’s grateful and when Merle crowds him against the bed, mouth and hands roaming his body, Daryl closes his eyes and loses himself in the feel of his brother. 

There’s more clothes, more food, weapons. Tucked between the items are things that Merle doesn’t mention. There’s cloth diapers, a few pacifiers, small baby clothes in various colours. Each time, Daryl feels his face burn. The traitorous tears that flow at any given moment betray his emotions and he just can’t stand the way Merle looks at him when it happens. 

He expects cruel words from his brother, the sharp jibes that Merle used to sling his way when he’d flinch away in anger and hurt, but there’s nothing. No harsh insults, no sneers about how he’s nothin’ more than a bitch and he knows that Merle never had any idea how to show his love for him in any other way than with his hands. 

But no, there’s nothing but a look that Daryl can’t describe in Merle’s face, a look that almost seems like satisfaction and he doesn’t trust that, not one bit. And he’s grateful, but the days he’s scratched on that piece of paper haunt him, always on the back of his mind, and he can’t bring himself to voice those thoughts to Merle, not even when there’s a new array of supplies. 

-

It’s late and Merle’s breathing in slow, even rasps. The familiar sound fans across Daryl’s ear, lulling him into a sleepy daze. He’s curled in Merle’s arms, his back to Merle’s chest, huddled under the layers of blankets piled on the bed. He stares, eyes half lidded in the darkened room, at the cradle across the room. There’s a blanket draped inside it, folded once. Its soft yellow with little bears stitched over it. He wants to hate it, but the soft fabric had felt right over his fingers and he couldn’t deny how much he wanted to line the cradle with it, make a comfy bed for the baby.

Merle shifts against him, his hand rubbing over Daryl’s stomach. They haven’t discussed names, haven’t talked about what they’ll do when the day comes and he lives in fear of that moment. If they talk, it’ll be real. If it’s real…He sucks in a stuttered breath, panic punching deep in his chest. 

It was bad enough when the truth was staring up from his hands, splintered shards of plastic, smeared with his own blood. He can still feel the way the shards had cut into his palm.

He exhales and releases the panicked breath, a cramp flickering low down in his belly. The cramps have come and gone for most of the past day, a dull ache that reaches around to his lower back every time. The pain is consistent and he can’t rub away the offending ache, no matter how hard he presses his knuckles against his skin. 

It’s not the first time that he’s wished that he’d paid more attention in school when he’d had the chance. He doesn’t know what to expect and that scares him more than anything. The cramps are a nuisance, an irritant, and he tries to ignore them until there’s one that he can’t ignore, a vicious cramp that rips through his abdomen and leaves him gasping. 

With a near whispered curse, he grips the bed, sucking in unsteady breaths. “Oh God…”

There’s new pain now, a stretching, burning pain that’s hovering behind the next cramp and the cramp is longer and harder, stealing his air. He tenses, his back curving away from Merle. 

It’s happening, he manages to think, and he struggles to stop the scream that wants to erupt from behind his clenched teeth. It’s happening now and he’s never been so terrified. 

-


	6. Chapter 6

-

There’s no time to think when he’s holding onto the mattress, his teeth clenched tight, gripped by cramp after cramp. Contractions, he remembers that word. These aren’t cramps. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, tiny drops streaking down with each violent juddering that’s running through him.

Daryl’s low moan wakes Merle, startling him from sleep. 

“S’wrong?” he mumbles, dragging a hand over his eyes. “The fuck you’d wake me for?”

He can’t speak, not when it feels like his abdomen is on fire, not when he can’t believe how much each cramp…contraction…pulses with hurt. He shakes his head, teeth still clenched. 

Merle looks down at him, realization setting in. “Ah, Jesus…”

“Hurts,” he manages, trying to sit up. His arms are shaky and he wobbles a bit. “Think it’s happenin’.”

There’s no amusement in Merle’s face, only fear. Daryl can’t remember the last time he saw Merle afraid. The day their house burned down, there’d been fear then, fear and rage, a dull fury against their mother, their father, the man who never cared enough about them or his wife.

“Fuck,” is all Merle says, his bleary eyes clearing fast, “You uh, ya sure?”

He’d laugh but the pain is taking his breath. There’s only a brief lull in the contractions, mere moments before he’s struggling to keep from tensing up tighter. It hurts, oh but it hurts and nothing that’s happened to him before quite compares. He licks his dry lips and nods, panting a little. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, pushing back until he’s mostly sitting up, his swollen belly enormous to him then, jutting up from under the blankets. “Like cramps, only worse.”

He can’t describe it, not in words that Merle would get. “Gettin’ stronger too,” he adds.

Merle pushes the blankets back and sits up, looking this side of pale. They hadn’t talked, not even once about what to do when the time came. Daryl’s meagre knowledge from school was of vague details about women in childbirth and he’s not sure how much of that applies to him. 

He knows now that what he thought were cramps the day before were the beginnings of contractions, that this…this _labour_ has already begun. The panic is back in spades and he fists his hands in the sheets, choking on his breath. He can’t…he can’t _do_ this, it’s not supposed to happen.  
The look on Merle’s face is beyond fear now. It’s panicky and Daryl wheezes until he feels Merle’s calloused fingers twine with his own, gripping them tight. Merle’s mouth thins and he nods at him. 

“’Nough of that,” he orders and there’s comfort in the demand. “Stop that wheezin’.”

Daryl lets in a breath and holds it, his heart pounding against his ribcage. Merle won’t leave, he knows. Merle’s here, he didn’t leave him to face this alone like he feared. He releases the breath, only to scrunch up again as the pain rockets back through his belly and down to his spine. 

“Don’t…Don’t know what to do,” he gasps. “It’s…I dunno.”

Merle grips his hand again, squeezing once before letting go. “Me either,” he admits.

Daryl fights the prickle of tears under his eyelids. He doesn’t understand much beyond the basics and even those seem distant compared to what’s happening right here and now. He thinks back to the pregnancy test and he lets his head fall back against his pillow, wishing he could take it all back, go back to the first time Merle pushed him down to his knees all those years ago and stop this before it all began. He loves him, always has, but God, how he hates him sometimes, sometimes it hurts to think about it all. 

-

The pain comes and goes as the hours tick by. Daryl counts the minutes between the contractions and they’re slowly gathering speed, happening more frequently as the minutes go. He’s stripped down, shorts discarded on the floor. He feels exposed. 

Merle ducks outside the trailer for some air and a few cigarettes every so often. There’s nothing he can do, that much Daryl is sure of, not at this stage. He spends his time inside the trailer at Daryl’s side, never straying too far, waiting for exactly _what_ to happen when, they don’t know. 

Daryl shifts around the bed, painfully making his way to the bathroom every so often. He barely fits in the small room, his belly rubbing against the doorframe when he enters. It hurts to bend, but he feels better when he kneels on the bed, taking the weight off his back. 

He has no appetite and fear still takes his breath every once in awhile. He hates that he’s so afraid, that he’s reduced to this panicked mess, he’s stronger than this, damn it! He’s a hunter, a fighter, not this…this freak of nature, labouring the way he is on his bed.

Merle picks at a sandwich, making the smallest dent in it. He doesn’t seem hungry either. 

As the morning light begins to creep into their trailer, Daryl feels a new wave of pain roll through him and he moans softly. There’s a spreading wetness between his thighs, dripping from his backside and he flushes with shame, feeling like he just wet himself. He wrinkles his nose and mumbles to Merle that he needs a towel or somethin’ before it gets wetter. 

The towel helps when the rest of the clear fluid trickles out of him in a steady stream. His cheeks are stained with a light blush and he hunches his shoulders, deeply shamed by his body. He chances a look at Merle and doesn’t see disgust like he expects. 

“Ain’t yer fault,” Merle says with a shrug, “S’ the water or whatever, it’s gotta come out.”

“Huh?”

Merle rubs his fingers on his jean clad thigh, somewhat amused. “Saw it happen once, some girl in town, she said her water broke or some shit, right then an’ there, by her car. I guess it’s s’posed to happen. Looked kinda like that jus’ now.”

Daryl grunts and stares down at the towel. That doesn’t make him feel much better, but the shame eases off a bit. He’s about to ask Merle if he’d seen anything else when a new contraction starts, stronger than the previous ones, a horribly strong one that takes his air. 

He pants through it, fighting to keep his calm. Taking deep, slow breaths helps and he tries not to tense, but his body wants to, does it ever… 

Merle sits next to him on the bed and rubs his hand down to Daryl’s lower back, rubbing in a hard circle. “G’on, take it slow,” he says, his tone gruff, his hands lovingly soothing the pain that radiates out from his spine. 

“M’tryin’,” Daryl snaps at him. He hurts all over, from his chest down to his thighs, unrelenting pain. It feels like it’ll never end and he has no clue how long it should take or _how_ this will end and all he can think of is the way the baby inside him is sluggishly kicking, timing the kicks to the moments between contractions. 

He shifts again on the bed, lying back for awhile and he tells himself it’s pure curiosity that leads him to slide the fingers of his right hand between his thighs. He closes his eyes, feeling the unfamiliar swell of skin, the way his body is stretching to accommodate and he yanks his hand back, horrified by the implication. 

It feels like days have gone by when the real pain begins.

-

“Ya gotta breathe, Daryl,” Merle barks at him from the end of the bed, positioned between Daryl’s widespread legs. He’s got a pot of slowly cooling boiled water on the floor next to him, an old blanket by Daryl’s feet, spread out and waiting. There’s towels bunched up with traces of blood on them on either side of his legs. 

Daryl’s biting his bottom lip, face pale and slick with sweat. He’s beyond afraid, too scared to ask what Merle sees and the pain is hideous. There’s a few tears creeping down his cheeks as he tries to push and breathe slowly at the same time. It hasn’t been too long since Merle had cleaned his hands and pressed a finger or two inside him gently, telling him he had to start pushin’ now. 

He doesn’t ask how Merle can be so sure, he just does as ordered. He doesn’t know what to do at first but nature kicks in and soon he’s bearing down when Merle tells him to. He’s wracked with contractions, the strongest ones yet, and he tries so damn hard to keep from crying or yelling, but it’s a losing battle. His bitten off cries echo in the room and sweat pours down his face as he grunts and pushes, struggling to obey Merle. 

“C’mon now, push!” Merle demands. “Ain’t gonna be much longer, I can see the head comin’.”

Daryl shudders a little and struggles to put the image from his mind. He doesn’t want to know how his body is managing this; he just wants it to end. “I can’t,” he growls weakly, exhausted from his efforts, “Can’t do it no more.”

“Do it,” Merle’s tone brooks no room for argument. “Now, Daryl. C’mon little brother, I got ya, now you go on an’ do this.”

Daryl lifts himself up by his elbows, moving with Merle’s hands as they guide him to kneel on the bed again. The next contraction comes and he’s biting his lip to keep the scream back. Blood trickles down his chin as he bites through his lip, straining to ease the baby from his body. 

“God…” he sobs out, losing the fight to keep his cries to a minimum. “Merle…”

Merle’s there, right under him, coaxing him along. “Easy now, push again.”

He takes a breath and tears spill over his cheeks anew as he pushes and there’s more pain, burning white hot and as he pushes, a short wail escapes him. He can’t, he _can’t_ , it hurts too much, but Merle’s there, one hand rubbing his lower back, the other helping him, the baby’s head emerging then. 

“There we go,” Merle says and his voice is a raspy, stunned whisper. “Holy shit, Daryl…Jus’, jus’ push again.”

Daryl’s head lolls to his shoulder and he pants harshly, pushing with all his strength, the baby’s shoulders coming out as he shouts again. The baby slides out in a rush, into Merle’s hands, and Daryl sobs for air, trembling with the adrenaline. 

“She’s here,” Merle whispers, eyes wide as saucers. “Jesus Christ…”

Daryl hears him dimly, his lips twitching at the news that they have a daughter before there’s a milder pain rocking through his belly. He pushes without thinking and from the look on Merle’s face, he guesses it isn’t pretty. 

He slides back onto the bed, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. It’s over, he’s done it. 

Merle’s still hovering between his legs and Daryl can see him snipping the cord that’s attached to the baby’s stomach, tying it off with a bit of clean string. He doesn’t ask how Merle knows to do that, he’s too tired to do anything but lay there and watch Merle take a corner of one of the towels and dip it in the warm water before using it wipe the baby’s face. 

There’s a wail then, a soft, warbling wail and Daryl feels more tears leak from his eyes. 

She’s alive. 

-


	7. Chapter 7

-

There’s an almost complete lack of noise that follows, an absence of sound, and Daryl can pretend for a moment that he didn’t just give birth. His body still shakes every few minutes, his limbs twitching uncontrollably. He’s in shock or so he thinks as the adrenaline buzz wears off. His chest hitches with shallow breaths and tears seep from his mostly closed eyes. 

He feels empty.

Merle’s got the baby wrapped up in the old blanket he’d had at the ready and the way he’s starin’ down at the blanket bundle sends an unnameable feeling through him. Merle shakes his head, lips curved in a proud smirk that wants to be a smile and he moves to Daryl’s side, the baby tucked against his chest securely. 

“Look,” he says and the soft tinge to his voice is enough to make Daryl open his eyes completely. “She’s…jus’ look at her.”

Part of him wants to. Part of him wants to run away, to hide from this reality. He hears the muffled cry coming from Merle’s arms and his eyes slide open as he stares at the little tuft of blondish-brown hair that’s sticking out from the top of the blanket. He can’t let the breath that’s caught in his throat out, can’t swallow over the lump that’s fast forming there and even as more hated tears dribble down his cheeks, he finds the panicky fear fading away. 

“She…she’s ok?” he croaks hesitantly, lifting his sweat soaked head from the pillow, craning his neck to see more of her. He’s afraid, so very afraid that there’ll be something wrong with her and God, please don’t let there be, it’s not her fault that she’s alive, she didn’t ask for this, please, please…

“She’s fine,” Merle reaches one hand down to help Daryl sit up a bit. He pushes the pillow behind him, his rough fingers brushing almost gently over the wet strands of hair that hang over Daryl’s forehead. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with her,” he adds when he sees the doubt in Daryl’s eyes.

He licks his dry lips. He wants to believe Merle so badly.

“Here,” Merle says with a coaxing tone to his words. “G’on, take her.”

He wants to say no but his arms move up and he accepts the baby before he realizes what he’s doing. He’s shaking a bit and there’s pain lingering in his abdomen, but that falls by the wayside when he looks, really looks, at the baby in his arms. 

She’s small, with wisps of blondish hair that curl around the top of her head and she yawns a little as she blinks up at him, her tiny lips pursed in what he thinks might be annoyance. His heart melts and he thinks that he hasn’t ever felt such love for anything before this moment and it’s overwhelming in every way.

-

He’s not sure how much time has passed since the moment he’d felt her leaving his body. He only knows that the sun has begun to set and that she’s sleeping on his chest, a warm, breathing weight that soothes his raw nerves. He keeps one hand on her back, listening to each exhale, reassured by the steady breaths.

The hours before are a blur. He knows that Merle had helped him out of bed at one point, that he’d showered as quickly as his sore body would allow, and he thinks he may have eaten a sandwich that Merle had thrust at him. He doesn’t know for sure, but what he does know is that she’s there and she’s alive.

She’s dressed in one of the sleeping outfits that Merle acquired, body and head carefully wiped clean hours ago, and re-wrapped in one of the softer blankets. She makes little snuffles in her sleep; small sounds that make his throat ache.

Merle’s sitting on a chair, one he’s dragged from the kitchen to the bedroom, perched on it uneasily as he watches the two of them. He’s got this look on his face, it’s right on par with the way Daryl feels and he’s got questions, lots of them, but Merle’s there at his side, his eyes this side of too big. 

“Ya hurtin’?” he asks, if only to break the heavy silence.

Daryl shakes his head slowly. “Not really,” he mumbles, wary of waking the baby from her sleep, “Ain’t that bad anymore.”

Merle nods but the spooked look on his face remains. “Never thought…” he trails off and yeah, Daryl knows what he means. 

He knows, of course he does. He’d done something unthinkable mere hours before, something neither of them can explain. Even as the baby had slid out of him, as he’d given _birth_ , he hadn’t been completely able to believe it. The mantra that he’s repeated since the beginning, that this kind of thing doesn’t happen to men, it doesn’t, suddenly it’s hard to pretend that these things don’t happen when the proof is fast asleep on his chest. 

He’s overwhelmed by the fact that she’s here.

Merle sighs and he rubs his hand over his chin. He looks as tired as Daryl feels, stubble dotting his cheeks, worn lines grooved in by his eyes. He’s got questions, sure, but what’s there to say when Merle had helped deliver their child.

He lets out a muted sigh, body drooping with exhaustion. “You knew what to do.”

It’s half a question and half a statement and Merle gives him a thin smile.

“Mom had ya at home. Apparently you was in too much a’ hurry to wait for the hospital,” he says with the same bittersweet tone he gets when he talks about their mother, rare as that might be. 

“I saw the last bit; Ol’ Missus Nelson didn’t close the door all the way an’ then you was comin’ out.” He laughs a bit, a near silent huff of air. “Red n’ squallin’ something fierce, you kept yellin’ even after they cleaned ya, an’ cut the cord.”

Merle smiles more and it looks less haunted. “She let me hold you an’ you stopped screamin’ then. Jus’ stared up at me, all red an’ wrinkled, angry little man. Mom said it was me that made you stop all that yellin’.”

There’s unshed tears burning under his eyelids and he can’t find it in himself to care, not when he can hear the affection in Merle’s words, the love he’s sought for as long as he can remember but could never quite reach, and it’s right there in front of him for once, hovering above him.

The words fade away as Merle reminisces and he remembers the first time that he’d wanted to have Merle put his hands on him, to feel those calloused fingers stroke over his skin, and how he’d hated himself for it at the time. He mouths his brother’s name, unable to say it all, unable to tell him how much he loves him even when he hates him. 

Instead, he reaches out his hand, blindly seeking. Merle catches his hand and grips his fingers. “Yeah,” he nods, and he knows what Daryl’s thinking, it’s no surprise, hasn’t Merle always known him better than he gave his brother credit for…

There’s far more that needs to be said, they need to pick a name and Daryl can feel a heavy, achy sensation building in his chest and God, he doesn’t even want to think about why his nipples feel so wet and sore, but there’s this right now, Merle holding tight to his hand and their daughter asleep on him.

-


	8. Chapter 8

-

The first few days are hard. 

He’s gone into this blind, wilfully in the first few months of his…pregnancy…and now there are consequences to be had. He’s aware that he knows almost nothing about infants, less about newborns, and he’s relying heavily on Merle to fill the gaps. 

She cries and the sound is heartbreaking until he realizes what he has to do. There’s that uncomfortable moment of realization as to why his nipples leak when she’s sobbing and he grimaces even as he shucks his shirt and cuddles her to his chest. He supposes he’s lucky that she seems to know how to latch on and while it’s awkward, he feels some pride in being able to solve this issue at least.

His face burns a bit when he sees Merle watching him, that predatory look gleaming in his brother’s eyes. He’s not fond of this but he knows that there’s no money for things like formula so he leans back against the pillows and tries not to wince when she roots hungrily around his nipples. 

Merle proves resourceful in that he knows things, like how to change a diaper. He shows Daryl the steps and Daryl knows without Merle saying why he knows these things, he knows how often Merle had been more than his brother from a very early age, all those times he’d been father and mother to him over the years. 

He sleeps fitfully, dozing as the baby does. She sleeps in her cradle mostly but more often than not he lets her sleep on his chest. It reassures him that she’s real, that she’s here and he sleeps better when she’s breathing slow and steady on him. Merle tells him that babies sleep a lot, just not all at once and that helps when he finds himself wondering why she’s asleep yet again.

There’s so much that he doesn’t know and he hates not knowing things. 

Merle gets rip roaring drunk the second night, drunk in a way that he hasn’t been in close to two months, and Daryl wants to smash him over the head with a bottle of booze. He can hear him talking outside the trailer, talking to the stars like he does when Daryl’s too tired to pretend that he’s listening to the stories that he’s heard before and while he’s coldly furious that Merle’s behavin’ like this already, he knows it’s happening for a reason. 

There’s no one to talk to, no one to tell about what the hell had just happened in their trailer. Merle’s drinking buddies live closer to town and Daryl’s accustomed to not seeing another living soul outside of Merle for weeks on end. There’s no close neighbours, no folks ambling by their home and more than that, there’s no way for Merle to explain the presence of a newborn, not when everyone knows that it’s only them out here, two outcast redneck brothers living in near exile, far from anyone else.

So he gets it, he really does, when he hears Merle telling the stars about the baby he delivered and how he was sure he was tripping balls when he saw the head starting to crown. He listens to his brother go on an’ on and while the baby sleeps, he thinks of how many nights he fell asleep to the sound of Merle’s voice, low and rough, lulling him to sleep while the drunken battles fought by their parents were screamed back and forth outside their bedroom door.

He looks at the stars in the cloudless sky through their bedroom window and shivers. 

-

It’s early in the morning and Daryl’s been up for awhile it seems, the baby tucked in his arms as he waits for the sun to rise. She’s quietly awake, head tucked against Daryl’s chest as he rocks her. He lets his mind wander, absently feeling the soft tuft of blondish hair tickling his collarbone as he thinks about what needs to be done. 

They’ve always lived day to day. Merle’s never been one for long term plans though he staunchly believes in being prepared, weapons wise. They don’t have much, they live in grinding borderline poverty, this Daryl knows, but they _live_ and even he knows that their life isn’t one that’s suited to raising a small child. It was fine before, it had to be then.

He feels licks of fear that he doesn’t want to admit to when he thinks about everything that could happen, living this far from town. He’s never given it much thought before but the small child in his arms has sent his mind reeling into overdrive. 

How will he hunt with a baby in tow…

How will she ever be normal living their way of life…

It’s a sick fear and clammy apprehension that burrows under his skin and makes his throat clench. How’s and why’s, they’re endless and he wants to scream in useless frustration. He thinks briefly of the days when he’d thought about leaving, when Merle had been in jail and he’d been alone out here. He’d been free but there had been a sad sense of loneliness to his days. 

And above all other thoughts is one that circles his mind viciously and makes his breath catch each time. What if this could happen again? He has no explanation, nothing to offer, and it could, sure it could, it happened once, why not again, dear God, don’t let it happen again…

A snore from Merle breaks his concentration and he breathes out slowly. The baby shifts in his arms and his lips quirk a bit. She yawns and peers up at him with a look he thinks borders on judgement and all his fear evaporates for the moment. Her eyes are a shade of blue that’s similar to his and her tiny lips are a shade of light pink. She looks like a doll.

He runs his fingers over the fine wisps of hair, humming a little under his breath. She needs a name, he muses as he rocks her. They can’t keep calling her ‘her’ forever. He draws a blank at first before he starts to think about some of the girls he’d gone to school with and as he cycles through the names, he tosses and discards a good majority of them reflexively. None seem right, none fit quite right and he knows he’s being picky but he doesn’t care.

His lips twitch with a small smile when he comes to the name Charlotte. 

Charlotte, it sounds soft, gentle, and even as he holds her as if she’s made from the most delicate of glass, with his calloused, worn hands, he thinks that there’s no prettier name for the child cradled in his arms.

-

He thinks he shouldn’t be surprised when Merle leaves most of the caring of the baby to him, even though it chafes at his patience. He feeds her, changes all her diapers, rocks her to sleep and God knows he’d give his life for her in a heartbeat, but he’s no _mother_ or so he snaps at Merle when he finds his brother packing up for a hunt that he’s clearly been excluded from.

“No?” Merle sneers a bit as he sharpens his favourite hunting knife. “That baby there says otherwise.”

Fury roars through him, faster than ever before. “Fuck you,” he hisses and his words drip with venom. “You ain’t gonna say that shit to me! You don’t got the right.”

His heart pounds and he feels such rage, it’s almost unbearable until he sees the considering look on Merle’s face and he shifts where he’s sitting, unwilling to wake Charlotte up by arguing like this. Merle snorts and shakes his head as he laughs dryly. 

“Fine, you ain’t her _mama_ ,” he agrees and he runs the tip of the blade over his finger, testing the sharpness. “But you can’t go with me, Daryl. C’mon, use yer brains, boy. Who’s gonna feed her if you go alone, huh? How you gonna keep her quiet if I spot some deer, eh?”

The fight goes out of him as quickly as it came on and he slumps back in his chair. He hasn’t got an answer for that and they both know why. His lips turn down and he tries to swallow the bitter disappointment that’s risen in his throat. He knows, fuck its obvious now that he’s stopped a minute and thought it out even if he hates the answer. 

“Uh huh,” Merle adds when he sees Daryl slump. “S’what I’m talkin’ about. It ain’t cause you can’t hunt, brother, it’s cause she needs ya too much. We gotta eat don’t we? Means I gotta hunt an’ you know that. Can’t be bringin’ no baby along for this.”

Oh he knows. He grits his teeth and nods. He’s got too much sense to argue something like this even if he hates being left behind. He flashes back to the times that he’d begged Merle to take him along, back when he’d been far too little to be given a knife, let alone his crossbow, and how badly he’d wanted to be a part of it all, to prove he was as good as his big brother, a better hunter than their old man had ever been. 

Charlotte stirs, as if sensing the heavy resentment in the air, and he schools his expression to a calm one as he scoops her up, shushing her with quiet nonsense noises. Merle runs his hand over Daryl’s hair, tugging on some of the strands to tip his head up and back and he presses a heated kiss to his lips, this side of rough but still loving, and fuck, he hates how easy Merle can sway him like this, heat and desire coiling through him.

As the kiss ends, he drops his gaze to the floor and he hears Merle murmur a good bye to the baby before he grabs his bag of ammo and tucks his knife back into its sheath. The door thuds behind him and Daryl rocks Charlotte slowly, listening to the wind whip around the edges of the trailer. 

-


	9. Chapter 9

-

Time has a way of passing without notice and it slips by Daryl as the weeks go on and more often than not, he’s not entirely sure what day it is. He’s not as concerned as he thinks he should be and they still don’t have a calendar to mark the days by, but he doesn’t think on it, not when he’s got bigger things to be focused on. He’s lost many a day over the years in the thickest of forests, alone or with Merle, living and breathing without concern for what day it was. 

Winter’s come, cooler than he remembers and he doesn’t protest when Merle wraps a blanket around him and Charlotte as he’s feeding her one night. He’s as gruff as ever, even as he tucks the thick fabric around Daryl’s shoulders. His fingers linger on the nape of Daryl’s neck, calloused and rough and familiar. It’s almost a caress, if one could say that of Merle but Daryl knows better. 

His skin prickles nonetheless and he shifts Charlotte, breaking her steady suction. He can feel Merle’s gaze on him and his face burns with a feeling that he doesn’t want to think about. They haven’t discussed much of anything since the day he gave birth and he finds that he has no words still, no idea what to say or _how_ to begin to say all the things he’s thinking. 

There’s a stilted catch to their words when they do talk and he knows that Merle isn’t faring any better than he is in that department. He wants to tell Merle how truly worried he is, how this world no longer seems familiar, this world, _their_ world, but the words catch in his throat and he chokes on their jagged edges. There’s no way and so he focuses instead on living, on keeping Charlotte alive. 

She’s the buffer in their lives. 

Merle smiles at her when he thinks Daryl’s not looking, her tiny fingers clasping only one finger of his, a wobbly almost smile curving her mouth. He’s caught Merle rocking her from time to time, a small smile on his face. It’s a gentle smile and it’s one that steals his breath, for it’s a rarely seen true smile on his brother’s face and it’s aimed at the baby in his arms. In those moments, Daryl feels something close to calm settle into his bones. 

He wonders from time to time how he could ever explain this all to her. He knows that there’ll come a day where she’ll learn the truth and the idea of that steals the moisture from his mouth and ties knots in his stomach. How can he ever explain who her parents really are, how could he ever tell her why he let his older brother put his hands on him years ago, how he couldn’t say no then and maybe he hadn’t even wanted to deny him, not really. 

And he knows he has no way of explaining to her how she came to be. It hurts to know that, to know that she might one day consider herself to be something unnatural, a freak, a mistake. He hurts for her and he grieves for the day that she comes to him and asks him why.

-

There’s a faint whiff of spring on the winds that blow around their trailer some weeks later, a teasingly pleasant wind. It whips along their property, blowing past the clothesline of sorts that Daryl had rigged up and the cloth diapers that hang from it swing with the breeze. He turns his face to the bit of sun that’s shining down through the wisps of clouds and lets out a short chuff of air. He’s never been more grateful for a change of season before and the promises of warmth in the air reassure him. 

He wipes one arm across his forehead and hefts the axe up from the ground, returning his attention to the woodpile that he’s been chopping his way through. There’s a coo coming from the wooden cradle a few feet away and he can see the way Charlotte’s playing with her toes, grasping at them and chortling with amusement when she catches them with her chubby fingers. 

His attention wanders when she coos and he finds his progress slowing to a crawl. She distracts him with little effort it seems, and his bleakly silent moods come far less frequently when she’s smiling and drooling at him.

He looks to the dirt road in front of their trailer, unease drifting along with the wind and sending a small chill up his spine. He can’t put a finger on it, can’t think of how to best describe it, but it’s there nonetheless, a creeping uneasy feeling that he can’t shake lately and even holding Charlotte to his chest as she sleeps does little to alleviate the sensation. 

This world is different now, he’s sure of that much. He’s been sure of it since the day he’d grasped a pregnancy test in their bathroom and stared at the positive result. If there’s no explanation for why this happened to him, then what else is wrong with their world?

Merle’s been gone several days now, off on one of his supply runs and Daryl can’t help but glance at the road every so often and even though he scowls at himself for it, he stares and hopes to hear the familiar roar of Merle’s bike, hopes to catch a glimpse of his brother coming up their road, emerging from seemingly nowhere with that cocky grin on his face as he returns with their goods. 

He swings the axe one last time and splits the wooden log evenly. A drop of sweat rolls into his left eye and he squints, blinking it away, trying not to glance back at the road for the fifth time in as many minutes. He won’t admit it out loud, but he fears the day that Merle doesn’t return.

It chafes at him to be so reliant, but it’s _Merle_ and really, he’s never been able to trust anyone quite like he does with his brother. Merle was his world as a child and sometimes he thinks he still might be and it’s fucked up by how little that bothers him. 

He loves Merle, loves him for staying, for not leaving him when he needed him the most, for taking the effort to bring back the supplies that allow them to continue to eke out a living, for not acting as cruel as he could be more often than not nowadays.

Charlotte whimpers, breaking his train of thought, and he drops the axe safely by the woodpile, scooping her up from the cradle. He murmurs to her and she smiles at him, her whimpers fading away almost instantly. 

The love he feels for her catches him off guard. He’s fiercely protective of her. He remembers how his childhood felt, the way he was kept at arm’s length. He’d known even then what it meant to feel different and the very thought of anyone treating Charlotte that way makes his teeth clench.

She smiles her crooked smile up at him and the dull anger fades away as he cuddles her close, murmuring to her while he strains his ears for the roar of Merle’s bike and as he smiles at her, he lets his fears go for the moment, but it’s there, in the back of his mind, that unease that never really fades.

-

There’s not often a time when Merle’s at a loss for words. 

He’s a motor mouth, always has been, and Daryl’s well accustomed to the sound of his brother’s voice. It’s a comfort in some ways, familiar, something he’s known since forever, but there’s this look on his brother’s face right now, this look that’s sayin’ something even though it’s leaving him looking pale and curiously silent. 

The silence is unnerving.

He starts and stops several times, like he’s trying to find a way to phrase things just so and it knots Daryl’s stomach up in twists each time. The way Merle’s looking at him and Charlotte, like he’s…afraid…

There’s a bottle of whiskey to the right of Merle, the lid still firmly on, and that’s more unnerving than the silence. Daryl can hear each raspy breath from his brother and he clutches Charlotte tightly, like he can protect her from whatever it is that’s stolen the words out of Merle. He licks his own lips, tries to moisten them as Merle starts to speak again. 

“…Ain’t no easy way to say this,” Merle mutters and Daryl feels his stomach drop. 

He can’t breathe ‘cause he knows what’s coming, some bullshit excuse as to why Merle can’t do this no more, why he’s leaving him, leaving _them_ and oh Christ, don’t cry, don’t cry in front of him, he prays as he steels his jaw, waiting for the harsh words to come. 

“Been hearin’ things in town, George at the bar, he heard that there’s some kinda disease, virus like…” Merle looks at the wall over Daryl’s shoulder, his gaze distant. “People droppin’ like flies in the cities.”

“…What?” is all Daryl can manage, and it’s such a fucking relief, he could just sob with it. He’d been so sure, so damned sure that Merle was gonna cut loose on them that he doesn’t think he heard right in the first place. 

Merle blinks and then blinks again and he laughs this funny little laugh that isn’t funny at all. 

“I thought, y’know, I thought George was pullin’ my leg. Fucker always thought he was so damn clever when the truth is he couldn’t find his ass with both hands,” he shakes his head and his gaze moves, lands on the bottle of booze before flitting over to catch Daryl’s eyes. “But he…had this look on ‘im. He looked scared. I figure it was worth listenin’ to.”

“Virus,” Daryl echoes faintly. He frowns, trying to suss out why that would scare Merle, Merle who’s never really scared, never admitted to being afraid until the day he was kneeling between his brother’s legs, easing their baby free from him. “So what?” he manages.

“They drop an’…an’ they get back up.”

There’s more silence, thickly cloying and full of disbelief. Merle stares at him for a beat before his stare drifts to the baby in Daryl’s arms. There’s that look again, that fearful look, and Daryl tries to laugh but he can’t. The sound is cracked and it catches in his throat. 

“That’s not possible,” he tries to say and he thinks back to the day that Merle had seen his pregnancy test and the irony isn’t lost on him. “That ain’t…”

Merle’s lips thin to a thoughtful line and he shakes his head again. “Maybe,” he says and Daryl tries not to shiver, “Maybe not.”

He holds the baby closer as Merle begins to tell him all that he’s heard, about the sheer number of people dying in the bigger cities, of the pitifully thin excuses coming from the government, and he thinks only of how this world isn’t theirs anymore, not if the dead are walking, not if a baby could come to be between two men, and he feels slick sweat bead along his forehead. 

This isn’t possible. And yet, it must be.

-


	10. Chapter 10

-

He tries his best to take the news with a grain of salt, hell, with a whole salt shaker, but it’s hard to ignore. It doesn’t seem possible, but then neither did his pregnancy. Merle’s telling him about the things he’s heard from George, the half truths and hurried t.v. broadcasts, and all Daryl can think of is the day he first held his pregnancy test in one trembling hand. 

The dead rising, attacking the living…it’s a joke, a sick, fucked up prank that the media’s cooked up, that’s all this is. He repeats this silently, over and over. It’s easier to believe than the idea of a ravenous dead human _eating_ other people. Things like that just don’t happen, not in real life. Not in this world, it’s just…it’s not possible. It can’t be. 

There’s a shiver running down his spine at that thought. 

This world is dying all around them.

Merle talks and talks and his gaze darts from object to object. It rarely lands on Daryl or the baby in his arms for more than a moment. He’s spooked, Daryl knows. He talks about how much ammo they have, what they’ll need to pick up in case this whole…virus… lasts longer than the newscasts talk about, and how long they have till its their town that’s hit next and that’s when the words start tumblin’ out of Daryl’s mouth.

“Leave?” he blinks, dragging his attention to what Merle’s just said. “Y’ want us to leave?” He thinks fleetingly that he might be dreaming right now. He wants to pinch his arm to be sure. 

“You been listenin’ at all, boy?” Merle stares at him now, disbelief etched in the furrows of his forehead. “We hafta leave an’ the sooner we do the better chance we got.”

Daryl tries to moisten his dry lips. There’s panic gathering in his stomach, coiling into tight knots. “Where are we gonna go? There’s…in town?” He nods to the baby sleeping peacefully against his chest. “What about…”

Merle’s lips thin and he scowls at the bottle of whiskey well within his grasp but still unopened. “What about her?”

“How we gonna explain her, huh?” he mumbles, voicing one of his many concerns. They haven’t talked about this, not yet, but it has to be said. “Surprise from the stork?”

There’s a flush to Merle’s face and Daryl would call it a blush if it didn’t sound so odd and he scowls all the more for it. “We ain’t sayin’ nothing,” he snaps. “Nobody’s damn business an’ I ain’t…there’s no…” he falls silent then, words falling short.

Silence chokes them until Daryl shakes his head. “There’s nothin’ to say.”

“You got that right. Shit, Daryl, the hell were you thinkin’? Oh hey, don’t mind us, jus’ comin’ to get some baby shit, oh yeah, y’all ain’t seen our little freak yet? Yeah, that’s easy t’ explain, ain’t it,” Merle spits and Daryl feels his free hand clench up at the way he’s being taunted. 

Merle always knows what buttons to push. Always has.

“Don’t,” he hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “She ain’t a freak!”

“Well sure she ain’t, boy, sure,” Merle’s sneering and his words drip with disdain but there’s fear in his eyes, barely banked. “She only slid on outta you few months back, what with you bein’ a woman an’ all. S’natural, yeah? Oh wait…that’s right…”

Daryl’s up before he knows he’s moving and his fingers are curled, ready to swing, and fuck, does he want to land one hell of a punch to Merle’s jaw. He’s struggling to breathe, fuelled by protective fury. 

“I said don’t!” he snarls and the desire to unleash his worry and rage on Merle is overwhelming. “Don’t you ever an’ I mean _ever_ say that shit t’ me or her, ever! I didn’t ask for any of this, none of it an’ neither did she, but she’s here now an’ she’s mine, you hear me?!”

Merle’s silent for a second except for derisive snort, but it’s a weak one, merely a reflexive noise. “Is that so, boy?”

“Yeah,” he nods and turns away, rocking the baby. “You run your mouth ‘round her like that again an’ I’m gone. I’ll stay gone.”

The weight of the room is crushing down on Daryl. The threat hangs in the air steadily and he takes small breaths, trying to calm down, until he hears Merle sit back in his chair, the creak of the metal obscenely loud in the aftermath of Daryl’s vow. 

He can feel Merle staring at him again, that lingering gaze he often has, assessing and judging. “Aw Christ, sit down, Daryl,” Merle grunts, uncapping the whiskey bottle finally. He pours himself a liberal shot, gripping the glass with too tight fingers as he downs it and Daryl sits, cautious and annoyed all the same. He watches Merle take another belt of the whiskey and thinks of the way the trees had swayed in the yard before Merle had pulled up, the shadows that had chased his brother up their dirt road. 

Sweat trickles down the back of his neck and he tries not to shudder. There’s somethin’ bigger to be worried about right now and he can’t seem to settle his thoughts. The dead don’t come back, he thinks, watching the sun set out their window. The reports are wrong.

-

Except they aren’t, the reports are true, and the radio that Merle’s tinkering with the next day keeps bleating out increasingly wild tales of what’s happening in Savannah, in Albany and Athens, reports of hospitals and morgues overflowing, teeming with bodies, hordes of sick people an’ how they’re dying faster than the news can keep up with and then there’s shock in the reporter’s tone, his words tinny through their far away reception, and there’s raw panic lacing his voice as he talks about the dead people staggering through the streets.

That’s enough for Merle. He snaps the button off and he says nothing as Daryl meets his gaze. Unspoken words are exchanged between them; an agreement that now’s the time to go. Daryl hangs back as Merle stomps into the trailer, watching him go. 

There’s crickets chirping in the grass nearby, the wind brushing over Daryl’s shoulders and he blinks a few times, squinting in the midday sun. The day’s come finally, he’s leaving, _they’re_ leaving, he’s been waiting all his life to leave and there’s a bittersweet laugh caught in his throat at the idea of leaving their trailer, maybe for good, and even though he’s wanted to run for so many years, it pains him to think of never returning. 

He packs while Merle sharpens their knives. Charlotte’s quiet in her cradle, as if she knows what’s happening, as if the strained atmosphere is telling her all that needs to be told. He moves on autopilot, gathering what few baby supplies they have and adding them to their meagre stock of food. Daryl adds his crossbow to the small pile of blankets, his thumb brushing over one of the bolts for a moment.

They’re ready to go all too soon it seems, and Merle’s still not saying much. The sun is high in the afternoon sky as they load up their old pick up, Merle’s bike securely strapped to the middle of the flatbed. Daryl packs the last of their boxes in beside the bike, Charlotte’s cradle tucked in as well. He can’t bear the thought of leaving it.

Merle’s in the truck, hollering for Daryl to hurry his ass up, yet he can’t help looking back at the trailer as he gets in, Charlotte tucked in comfortably against his chest and arm. The trailer seems smaller than before and Daryl swallows over the lump in his throat. 

They’re leaving, just not the way he ever thought they would, like he had dreamt so many times he would. The truck rumbles down the dirt driveway, Daryl’s gaze firmly fixed on their trailer as it grows smaller still in the rear view mirror, a speck amongst the trees. 

-


	11. Chapter 11

Nothing prepares him for what they see when they enter their town…or the next town, or any of the others that they stop in. There’s no words that describe the sheer carnage that spreads like wildfire through the streets. The roads are streaked with blood, cars are abandoned where they stand…and the bodies…God, the bodies are everywhere.

Daryl does his best to block it out, to focus on the plain truth of survival, but it hurts to see this, to see what their world has come to. Merle is in his element though. His first kill brings an unholy gleam to his eyes, the handle of his knife jutting from the skull of the creature in front of them.

Gore drips down from the forehead of what used to be a gas station attendant, body still clad in his uniform. The body drops to the ground with a sickening thud. All he can see is blood, blood everywhere, and he thinks absently that this is the world that Charlotte will inherit.

It doesn’t take long for them to learn how to take the walking corpses down, that only severe damage to the head will stop the body from moving permanently. He nearly throws up the first time he sees a trio of them gnawing away frantically at the still twitching body of a man they’d pulled to the ground with grasping fingers.

Merle snorts and steers the pickup around them. “Ain’t that somethin’,” he mutters, a lit cigarette clamped between his lips. He looks disgusted and somewhat amused and Daryl feels his throat squeeze tighter, nausea surging anew.

It's revolting to watch and he can’t look away, not until Charlotte snuffles in her sleep. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and focuses on the wisps of hair that tickle at his chin, Charlotte’s sleep slack hand rubbing against the base of his neck.

There’s no way to describe what they see. He wonders how many people have died so far.

-

There’s hardly anyone left to ask questions about the baby that travels with them and for that, he’s grateful. Their town had been awash in terror and mayhem when they’d pulled up, people running like wild men, gunshots echoing in the distance and amongst the chaos, Daryl had slipped into the pharmacy, grabbing what he could from the shelves, Charlotte tucked safely in her makeshift sling.

No one seemed to notice that one of the Dixons was looting diapers, wipes and jars of baby food, anything baby related. He’s in survival mode and all he can think of is how to keep her safe.

He and Merle, they could disappear into the wilderness, deep into the forests of Georgia, and thrive, they could survive for years on next to nothing; they always have…but now? He clutches Charlotte closer when she whimpers as he leaves the store, a battered duffel bag overflowing with baby supplies held tightly in his other hand.

He can’t drag her into the forest with him. She’s too small, too fragile yet, a baby for fuck’s sake. Noise attracts the dead people, draws them in like moths to flames, and quiet as she is, he can’t expect her to stay silent until they stagger away, searching for their next meal. Her every cry will be a death sentence.

As if sensing his panicked thoughts, Charlotte stirs again, rubbing her fist over her lips expectantly. She's hungry, he notes as the glass door to the pharmacy slams shut behind him. He can hear the shouts echoing off of the town buildings but the sound is muted over the roaring of his heartbeat in his ears. He can't think straight, not when he can see one of Merle's poker buddies staggering near the pickup, glazed eyes staring at him sightlessly.

Lenny, who never did much of anything, and who, according to Merle, couldn't bluff to save his hand, stumbles closer, dirty, broken fingers reaching out in search of something to catch. There's blood matted in his dull brown hair, streaks of red painting his sunburned face. His cheek is ripped halfway back to his right ear, teeth and tendons exposed to the wind, and Daryl takes a step back instinctively, his arm clutching the sling on his chest. He thinks of his crossbow and curses the stupidity of leaving it in the truck, but those thoughts are lost when he hears Lenny utter a crazed snarl, his body jerking forwards at the prospect of fresh meat.

Charlotte bleats out an angry cry, rooting against Daryl with demanding fingers and lips and even as his shirt grows damp from the automatic let down, his eyes narrow on the threat before him. He's not afraid, no, not of this, there's no time for fear, not when he's dropping the duffel bag to the ground and drawing his bowie knife, not when he's lifting his arm and arching it down, stabbing into the skull of the man who used to slip him candy bars when Merle wasn't looking all those years ago.

Lenny gurgles and grunts as he drops gracelessly to the dusty road, blood rushing down his forehead, coating Daryl's fingers in tacky warmth. There's a moment, just a fraction of a second where he can't look away from the corpse that's puddled on the ground beneath him, and he thinks of the way Lenny never joined the others when the conversations got progressively nastier during the poker games as the empty bottles began to litter the table, and how he'd smile that funny little half smile of his when he'd pass the candy bar on to Daryl like it was no big thing.

He shudders, swallowing again and again, rubbing his fingers over his hip, desperate to get the feel of Lenny's blood off his skin. Charlotte's still whimpering, and there's crickets chirping in the grass beside the pharmacy and he can feel the wind brushing the tips of his hair over his neck, and it's horrifying, this is wrong, it's so wrong and he sheathes his still wet knife as he hears Merle barking his name from across the street. The bellow is comforting and he exhales as Merle comes closer to him, arms laden with a few bottles of alcohol, and baggies of pills that he doesn't want to think about just now.

“The hell were you?” he mumbles, looking down at the tufts of blonde hair that stick out from his sling.

“Gettin' supplies,” Merle stops short, his boots mere inches from Lenny's sprawled body. “Fuck...”

He kicks the shoulder of the corpse, his lips pulled back in disgust. “Christ, Lenny,” he says, and there's hardly a hint of sympathy in Merle's voice, Daryl notes as he scoops up the forgotten duffel bag. “Look atcha, man.”

“He came at me. I had to...” he says, shouldering the bag awkwardly. Charlotte's still whimpering, her anxious cries growing louder. His shirt is sticking to his skin, wet from the let down and he winces as his chest begins to ache. 

Merle grunts and steps around Lenny, tucking the bottles into the cab of the pick up, scowling when Charlotte lets out a shrill screech. “Shut 'er up, would ya? She's gone bring every one of them geeks our way.”

“She's hungry,” is all Daryl says through clenched teeth. He eases the sling off and sets her carefully on the seat in the cab, stripping his wet shirt off in one smooth movement. He digs another of Merle's old plaid shirts out of his satchel and tosses it on, leaving it unbuttoned. With Charlotte settled back in place on his chest, she latches on and the ache begins to ease. 

He does his best to ignore the baggies that Merle tucks into another of their beat up packs. He stares out at the corpses that litter the ground nearby, people he's known most of his life, and even as Merle slams the truck door behind him, pills rattling in their bags, he keeps it all in, keeps the words that are clamouring to escape through his clenched teeth. There's nothing he can say, and he hates, God how he hates Merle at times, for thinking of things they don't need in a time like this, for risking their lives on some booze. 

He swallows the bitter words down, saying nothing as they drive through what's left of their town, the sun still shining beside the truck, the wind still lightly flicking at their skin. The chirps of crickets near the side of the road are more unnerving than the faint screams that float on the wind.

-

They drive, aimlessly it feels like. At first there's plenty of other people, more than Daryl's used to running into in a year, and not a one of them looks anything other than terrified. They hear stories and each one is more unbelievable than the last. The towns surrounding their own empty of people, an exodus of cars and trucks fleeing to the highways, more than half heading towards Atlanta, others stretching out in different directions and everywhere they go, there's blood, blood covering the land. 

Daryl loses track of how many bodies they come across. He's cold, so cold that the warmth of the sun can't reach him, and his chest hitches in uneven breaths as the days stretch on. Merle though, he smiles as he kills, a smile that leaves Daryl cold inside. It's a smile that steals his hope and it makes his skin crawl. 

It's numbing, watching the bodies fall, watching the people scream in agony as they go. The scent of fear clings to the air. 

Charlotte's quieter than normal and Daryl can't shake the desperate uneasiness that he feels. He's never known feelings like this and he despises the weakness that it leaves in his bones. He can't muster up the love of killing that Merle has, not when it's for anything other than food. He doesn't kill for pleasure. Now, it's for safety, it's for him, for Merle, for Charlotte. 

They don't talk about it, don't converse about where to go, about what they're doing. They just...are. They coast from town to town, avoiding the larger cities by an unspoken statement that larger cities mean larger groups of undead. Merle brings them to ransacked stores and they rifle through what's left, a lifetime of grinding poverty having instilled a sense of waste nothing in them. 

They stop when it's safe to, find shelter in abandoned houses. Charlotte crawls for the first time on the stylishly faded carpet of the home they're holed up in, and the pleasure he would have found in that moment is lost in the fear that her delighted squeals might bring death one step closer. He sleeps with her clutched tightly to his chest each night, listening to her breathe.

It's not safe here. It's not safe anywhere.

He dreams of her dying, of fires that consume him and the ground he stands on, of endlessly reaching hands that clutch at him desperately. He wakes from these dreams with a fist crammed into his mouth to stifle his screams, his heart pounding so hard that he's dizzy from it. He fears, endlessly. 

There's comfort in Merle's arms, a comfort he's known all his life. There's strength and security in being cradled to Merle's chest each night, bracketed in his arms, in hearing his brother's heartbeat under his ear, steady and strong. Alive. He still fears the idea of his body betraying him again, of the possibility that this could happen to him again, and maybe Merle can sense that too because he doesn't push for much. 

There's little time for such things.

He's afraid of too much now and he hates having these fears, hates being plagued by crippling doubt. He wishes in vain that he had someone, anyone, to ask why this happened to his body, if it would happen all over if he dares to let Merle have him again. And then he lingers on the dead around them, the corpses that stagger through the streets. It angers him, this uncertainty and there's nothing for him to funnel this rage into. Instead, he follows Merle, hasn't he always, won't he always...

He feels as trapped as he was in their trailer. 

-

Running into survivors happens less and less as the days drag on. They circle outside of Atlanta, hovering not too far from the nearby Interstate that's clogged with vehicles. There was talk in the first weeks of the outbreak of a refugee camp in Atlanta, a safety zone run by the military but Merle had flat out refused to even consider taking them there, stating that they're better off away from all that. Daryl doesn't argue it at first, trusting that Merle won't lead them astray, though he wonders just how equipped the city could possibly be with hundreds of thousands of panicked people flooding in so suddenly.

It's the bombs that crush any hopes of finding safety in numbers, a rainfall of fire as the city is napalmed before their very eyes.

They're tucked just off one of the main roads, Charlotte half asleep mid-nurse on Daryl when the first dull roar echoes around them. It's early evening, dusk settling in. Merle's got a small fire going, hands busy with prepping a cottontail for their meagre dinner when the first bomb drops. It startles them all and even Merle is stunned into silence by the fireball that's just visible above the trees. They follow the glow of it back to the main road and it's horrifying, the flames that engulf the city, and he thinks he can almost hear the screams of the dying people over the roaring bombs.

"The fuck..." is all Merle can manage before he falls silent again.

"They...they're bombin'..." Daryl licks at his lips, unable to accept what he's seeing initially. "Why..."

Merle shakes his head, squinting at the distant explosions ricocheting off the buildings. Smoke plumes rise, billowing clouds of black hover over the city. "Damage control," he finally says. He rubs his left hand over his stubbled jaw and he smiles but there's no humor in it. "Numbers get to be too high, ya take 'em out, all of 'em. S' a quarantine of sorts."

The thought chills Daryl down to the core. He doesn't trust the cops or any other kind of authority but he knows, knows it for sure, that this is wrong. Charlotte whines and shakes her little fist, squalling over her interrupted feeding. It draws his attention back to her, and Daryl shifts the sling, securing it tightly until he feels Merle's calloused fingers on his arm. They dig in and there's an urgency to Merle's eyes, one Daryl hasn't seen since the day Merle had come home to tell him about this strange illness that was sweeping through the cities.

"We gotta get offa this area," he says and he tugs Daryl along with him, hustling them back to the pickup. "Get away 'fore they start bombin' the suburbs."

It's the fear in Merle's voice that has Daryl obeying him instantly. They pack up and are back on the road within minutes. He can't help but look at the fire that rages out of control behind them in the rear view mirror, his heart pounding double time. There's nowhere safe anymore, he's sure of that much.

It's a few days later before Merle follows the sign for a campground, one of the national parks that people like them never vacationed at, and he turns off at the main road without explanation. There's a few cars parked up ahead on a dusty path, and Daryl can see some people milling about, camp tents set up like this is an extended holiday.

"City folks," Merle mutters, crossing his arms over the steering wheel as he coasts to a stop. "Jus' look at 'em. Betcha ain't a one of them's been huntin' before."

There's one tall guy striding towards their pickup, his gait loose but Daryl can see the piece strapped to his hip and he knows instantly that this guy's a cop and he can't help but tense up the closer he comes to Merle's window. He grips the sling around his chest, feeling the sweat drip down his neck. He's afraid but there's not a chance in Hell he'll admit it here and now, not before some pig cop.

"Afternoon," Merle drawls, fake friendly and welcoming. Daryl's heard that tone many a time and he winces inwardly, seeing the look on the guy's face as he takes Merle in, as he looks at Daryl, the puzzled expression forming when he sees the fabric sling across Daryl.

He listens to Merle with half an ear, hearing but not really as Merle all but insults the guy, as they snark at each other over the idea of them staying and he can see it, can see the 'not a fucking chance' waiting on the cop's lips when Charlotte begins to whimper, her arm poking out of the sling.

The cop's expression softens a little, understanding beginning to dawn. "Y'all say your hunters?" he says instead, watching Charlotte's fingers wave and Daryl can't put it into words, but he's suddenly chilled through again. The feeling is fleeting and he can't look the cop in the eye as he whispers to Charlotte, soothing her fretting. 

He doesn't want to stay here, but there's nowhere else to be. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for those who waited so patiently for this chapter. This story is nearing it's end very soon and I thank everyone who sent me messages that helped me to remember this story and not let it fall by the wayside permanently.


	12. Chapter 12

-

"The hell am I s'posed to say," Daryl asks, almost under his breath as Merle guides the pick up over to the side of the dirt road, pulling up haphazardly between a church van and a jeep. He can feel the curious stares from across the campground and his shoulders hunch up defensively. 

Merle yanks the keys out of the ignition and it's a long moment before he speaks, and there's a strong undercurrent of uncertainty to his voice that matches Daryl's hesitancy. "Make somethin' up, some bitch left the kid with you, got bit, whatever..." he finally mutters, palming the keys in one hand. "Keep it simple."

Simple. No part of Charlotte's existence is simple. Daryl wraps his left arm around the sling, like he can protect his daughter from the harsh reality waiting for them only a few feet away. 

"What about...y'know," he gestures uncomfortably to his chest with his thumb. 

Merle scowls out the windshield, lips pursed. "Ah hell, I dunno." 

"Can't hide it forever, man," Daryl mutters, heat flooding his neck and the tips of his ears. His chest might be small, hardly noticeable under the somewhat baggy shirts he wears and it's not that he's ashamed of how he feeds Charlotte, not really, he understands that she needs it and that bottles aren't much of an option for them, but... _but_ this is different. 

"I...I gotta feed her."

"Then don't do it in front of them," Merle snaps, his gaze meeting Daryl's for one endless second before he blinks, a slight scowl flitting over his features. "They ain't your kin, ya don't hafta answer to them. 'Sides, the fuck are a bunch of pussy ass city slickers gonna understand 'bout us anyhow? Anyone says anythin', they gotta deal with me, got it?"

Daryl nods silently as he looks back down at the tips of Charlotte's wispy blonde hair. He doesn't want to think of what these strangers might say should the truth come out. He flinches when Merle steps out of the pick up, like his last bit of safety ran away from him, and clenches his jaw when he hears Merle holler his name, urging him out of the truck. 

He doesn't want to be here. This is too out in the open, too many people making noises. He can't believe that Merle's actually grabbing his tent bag, that they're really gonna stay. It's an old reflex guiding him out of the truck, Charlotte's bag clutched in one hand, his crossbow in the other, a reflex that has him following Merle's cocky swagger down the path and towards the campground, his heart pounding uncomfortably against his rib cage.

-

He's not more than a few feet into the main campground before one of the women nearby spots the sling, unasked questions on her face. She's got two kids close by her side, a boy and a girl, and he can see that she's itching to ask, so he turns his gaze away, ignoring everyone as he trudges behind Merle. 

"Y'all need any help settin' up?" 

The cop's there, right near his side, startling him. There's something intimidating about how the cop's watching them with suspicious eyes until he looks at the sling again. Yeah, oh yeah, Daryl knows that the cop's thinking the worst about them and he curls his lip, sneering a bit at the taller man. Times have changed, he doesn't need to fear former cops anymore. 

"Nah, we're fine as we are, ain't we, little brother?" Merle says, drawing the cop's gaze off of Daryl and the baby. He's still smiling that fake smile that Daryl hates so much. "Don't you worry none 'bout us, _officer_."

Five minutes here and there's tension brewing. Daryl nudges Merle before the cop can reply, eyeing him until Merle relents enough to step back an inch or so. The cop shifts his weight from one leg to the other, hands resting loosely on his hips, fingers brushing over his gun in it's holster. 

"Look here, we don't need anyone startin' trouble," the cop looks from Merle to Daryl and Daryl tries not to scowl but it's a losing battle. There's more men a few paces behind him, waiting, watching. "This is not the time or the place for that kinda bull. Y'all are welcome to leave if you wanna deal with the Walkers on your own."

"Now, now, who said anythin' about trouble?" Merle's amused but there's a glint Daryl doesn't trust to his eyes. "Seems to me like you all need us more'n we need you. How long are them tin cans of food gonna last, huh? I tell you what, you jus' go on back to your business, we'll go 'bout ours and when there's meat a'roasting, you can thank us, hm?"

Daryl's more than a little surprised to see the cop back down, even if there is a reluctant air about it. 

"Fine," the cop says between gritted teeth. "Name's Shane. This here behind me is Jim, T-Dog, and Glenn, that there's Dale up on the RV.," he says, pointing over his shoulder to the caravan off to the far side of the camp. "And you'd be...?"

"Merle Dixon, this here's my baby brother, Daryl."

Daryl can't help the way his shoulders hunch at the direct attention of the men staring back at them. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself steady and Charlotte chooses that exact moment to bleat out an annoyed cry.

Shane's eyebrows lift and Daryl's got his crossbow rising ever so slightly in his right arm on instinct. "The baby yours?" he asks and there's so much disbelief in his voice that Daryl feels his patience crumble.

"Ain't none of your business," he snaps, narrowing his eyes.

Shane lifts his hands a little and shakes his head, like he's trying to calm a startled horse. "S'fine, man, it's alright," he says, pitching his voice to a soothing tone. 

And with that, Merle's beside Daryl, looming protectively over them. "Fuckin' right it's fine," he glares at the men, fiercely. "Now back off."

There's a long, slow exhale from Shane before he nods, regret heavy in his eyes. He waves in the general direction of the tents, muttering to them about finding a space where ever they like. The other men are waiting, seemingly on Shane's command, and the air is thick with tension. Merle snorts and unzips the tent bag close to the nearest cluster of trees, ignoring their crowd.

Daryl turns away, his blood still pumping furiously. He can see the way everyone's watching them, his skin crawls with the knowledge of it. His head is pounding, he's tired and his chest aches. Charlotte bleats again, waving her fist under his chin and mouthing at his shoulder blade hungrily.

"Shit," he swears under his breath as he feels the familiar tingle of imminent letdown.

He leans in closer to Merle, trying not to fidget. "I...I hafta...she's gettin' hungry."

"Fuck's sake," Merle sighs, his lips tight with irritation. "I'll have the tent up in a few. Take a walk till then."

His neck burning, Daryl sets the crossbow down beside Merle and hoists Charlotte's diaper bag onto his shoulder, as if he's taking her to be changed. She's gumming away on his shoulder, whimpering a bit louder. There's a shuffling of people trying not to be obvious, but he can't shake the feeling of being watched, and he's overwhelmingly aware of the cop's eyes on him, following his every movement as he disappears behind the trees.

-

"Shh, baby," he coos to Charlotte, easing her up and out of the sling. She's angry at the delay, her lips pursed and she's whining as he pulls his shirt up, but the noise is short lived when he cradles her in his arms and she latches on. 

The sounds from the camp behind them are muted by the trees and Daryl lets his weary eyes close for several minutes, lets his mind wander, his concentration fixed only on the contented suckling noises coming from his baby. The camp seems well set up from his first glance, though that thought does little to reassure him. Relying on others, being in close quarters, he doesn't like it. They'd lived for so long with only each other that the thought of relying on anyone other than Merle makes him wary.

Merle's favourite phrase, his reminder that no one else would ever care about him except for Merle, it's there under his skin. There's an ache that never fades when he remembers his mom, and not a drop of lost love for their father. There's no one else, he's never had anyone else, it's only ever been Merle, his whole life, and he knows how they look, two dirty redneck loners like them, fresh from the woods, uncivilized, uncouth, and while it never bothered him much before, the last thing he wants is Charlotte painted by that brush. Eyes open now, he watches the shadows around them pass by, and he listens for something, though what, he's not sure.

A full stomach and a fresh diaper has Charlotte in much better spirits and she's cuddled on Daryl's lap, chortling happily as she gums her fist, her eyes locked on his face. He can't help but smile back, rubbing his finger down her plump cheek, bopping her nose with the tip of his thumb. 

"Thatta girl," he murmurs and presses a kiss to her soft hair. His love for her is fierce, a feeling that steals his breath when he thinks about it, and there's a twinge deep down when he remembers watching that plus sign form on the test stick, remembers the horrified fear. It feels like years since that moment.

It's that memory that has him gathering the baby bag, Charlotte tucked in one arm against his chest as he heads back out to the camp, watching her stare up at the trees as he emerges back into the sunshine.

The tent's ready to go, their bags and supplies neatly arranged inside according to Merle's own oddly neat organization, and he's perched on a slightly rusted folding chair, sharpening his knife with practised movements, his hands as agile as ever and Daryl pauses, emotion heavy in his throat. 

There's love in these little moments, these flickers of care, of understanding, and above all else, protection. He knows that Merle would die to protect him, to protect Charlotte, he knows that without ever being told, and he's grateful beyond words once more, even if his ears burn when people side eye them together. 

Merle glances up at him, his lips quirking. He seems amused, and there's a gleam of something else in his eyes, something that makes Daryl's breath catch. He gestures with his knife to the tent, humming tunelessly under his breath. "Go on, if you hafta."

"She's fine," Daryl drops the bag by the tent and tries to ignore the open stares from the others around them. "Merle...you sure 'bout this?"

There's a long pause before Merle looks up again. He smiles a slightly humourless smile and runs the blade of his knife along an old rag until it shines. "Sure enough for today. We don't need them even half as much as they need us. Things start goin' south, we take their shit an' leave."

Daryl nods even though the idea appals him. "Don't like this," he mutters, sitting down in the chair next to Merle, Charlotte resting in his arms, content and comfy. "S' too open, too many people."

"It'll be fine," Merle catches his gaze, stern and certain, and Daryl wants to believe him, but he can't shake it, can't let go of the fear. "We'll stay here for now, see how it goes. You listenin'?" 

Daryl nods again, mute, and looks down at Charlotte. "Yeah."

Subject closed, Merle resumes humming, seemingly unaware of how closely they're being watched.

-

It's not that hard to intergrate, Daryl finds, as the days stretch on. Chores are divided, everyone pools resources, wood is chopped, water is gathered, fires stoked, clothes washed, and food portioned. Merle hunts much of the time, leaving Daryl to maintain their camp site. Charlotte's delighted by the chance to practice her crawling inside the tent, tumbling over their sleeping bags, giggling when she falls on her backside, and Daryl does his best not to chew his nails whenever anyone comes close. He settles for nasty scowls and that helps to keep the rest of the group at bay.

Everyone is a danger, so far as he sees it.

The cop is relentless though, finding excuses to wander near their camp every so often. He's clearly in charge, as Daryl can see the other men deferring to him, and he's fairly obvious about the fact that he doesn't trust Merle or Daryl, though his expression softens whenever he sees Charlotte in Daryl's arms.

It's inevitable when the tall, skinny woman who hangs around the cop, Lori something or the other, finally decides to come by, lured by the sight of the little blonde baby. Daryl's first urge is to snatch Charlotte up and away from the woman, distrustful of the way she's eying them. He holds back on the impulse, if only because the cop is never far from Lori's side.

"Aren't you the sweetest thing?" 

Charlotte's holding a soft yellow cloth, drooling on it as she stares up at Lori from her pile of blankets that buffer her from the dirt. She smiles, pleased by the praise, and laughs, before stuffing more of it into her mouth. 

"What's your name, sugar?" Lori asks, though she's clearly directing the question to Daryl.

He rolls his eyes as he cleans the tip of one of his crossbow bolts, wiping at it with his old red rag. There's a moment of silence before he gives in and grunts, "Charlotte." He sets the clean bolt off to the side, well out of the baby's reach. 

"Charlotte," she echoes. "That's a lovely name."

Daryl looks up at her, his shoulders hunched. There's no good reason to feel so boxed in, but he's uneasy regardless. She seems harmless, and he knows she's got a kid of her own, he's seen the kid roaming the camp grounds happily enough, but there's a look to her eyes that makes him chafe. He's seen women like her in town before, women like her who wouldn't even notice a guy like him unless he was putting gas in her SUV.

"She's beautiful," Lori adds when Daryl's silence hangs in the air. "How old is she?"

"Um," Daryl blinks and tries to remember, but they hadn't had a calendar then, hadn't kept one after. All he knows for sure is that it's early summer now. "I...I dunno."

She's staring now, and he can feel the sweat beading on his temples. He's going to blow this already. 

"I...I mean...six months?" he ventures finally. He thinks that's a fair assessment. He'd been cold a lot toward the end of his...he swallows dryly at the memory, of the word...pregnancy.

Lori nods and squats down, smiling brightly at Charlotte. "I figured as much," she says. "It's not that easy to keep track of the days any more. I hope I'm not intruding, I just wanted to say hello and come see this little sweetie."

He shrugs, spotting the cop up the walkway, watching them. He has no interest in small talk and no clue what women talk about when they've got kids. He rubs his chin and tries not to hover over Charlotte. There's a damn good chance that Merle'll be back soon and he knows how fast Merle can cause trouble. 

Lori's making silly faces at the baby, getting more smiles from her. "She's got such blue eyes," she says, looking up at Daryl, and pausing before she speaks, and he knows what she's going to ask even before it comes out.

"Like yours, actually. Did her mother, well..." Lori falters and he can see the gears in her head working as it occurs to her that asking about a mother might not be best idea nowadays. "That is..."

He wants to say what Merle suggested, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. His ears burn and he feels that cold chill creep over his skin. He's going to fuck this up, they'll know, God, they'll _know_ that he's a freak, some disgusting freak, they'll think she's an abomination, and he can't breathe as the panic sets in, as his lungs hitch.

She's biting her lip now, watching the dread fill his face, watching him pale, and he's ducking his head, leaning down and grabbing Charlotte off the ground, his heart pounding. "She, I ain't," he stutters, God damn it, why didn't he think of something to say! 

"I'm sorry," Lori says as she stands, her voice full of sympathy. "Was it recently?"

He can't answer and he's so fucking mad at himself for freezing up and the sound of Merle's boots clomping toward them have never sounded better, even as he sees the cop hurrying toward them at the first bellow from Merle.

"The hell's goin' on here? The fuck you want, huh?"

Merle's red faced, sweat dotting his forehead, a hank of rope slung over his shoulder, dead squirrels tied to it. He looms in close, one meaty hand grasping Daryl's shoulder, his fingers digging in, as possessive as ever.

"Well?"

Daryl sways closer to him, and as relieved as he is, Merle is still Merle. Charlotte whimpers, burrowing her face into Daryl's shirt as he rocks her a little. The cop's almost there, those long legs of his eating up the dirt path, and he's yelling now, telling Merle to back off.

"The hell I will!" Merle's pushing Daryl back behind him, tossing the rope of squirrels off to the side. "I ain't spendin' my time hunting down fresh meat for none of y'all ungrateful bastards, comin' up here an' bothering my brother, comin' near my...his kid.

The cop's spitting mad, that much is obvious and he's got his hand around Lori's arm, trying to push her back as well, ignoring her protests. "I warned you both when y'all got here. We don't need this bullshit, and if you can't keep it together, then you're welcome to leave."

Lori shakes the cop's hand off with a frustrated huff, glaring at him. "Damn it, Shane. I was just talking to Daryl and he got upset, that's all. I asked him something personal, there's no reason to cause a fight."

"Better listen to yer woman," Merle sneers at the cop and Daryl knows that Merle's loving the fact that he can't be arrested anymore, "Sounds like she's got ya under real good control."

"You watch your damn mouth, Dixon!"

"Merle!" Daryl's moving fast, pushing between the two men, breaking up the fight that's three seconds from starting. This needs to stop now before Merle starts swinging his fist. "C'mon, man, stop it."

Neither Merle nor Shane are listening, and Daryl nudges Merle, trying to pull his attention back. "Merle, enough, alright? We're fine...she's fine," he murmurs, and it's the sound of Charlotte's unhappy wail that draws Merle's attention. 

He looks down at Charlotte's tear stained face for one endless second, exhaling heavily at the sight of her tiny chin quivering.

"Fine," he spits, his eyes narrowed with barely suppressed rage. "You keep your bitch offa our camp area, we keep givin'' meat, that sound fair, _officer_?"

Lori's jaw drops and Daryl just knows she wants to lay something scathing on Merle, but the cop's shaking his head and pulling her away as he mutters under his breath, "Fucking rednecks..."

A wave of inexplicable shame washes over Daryl, and he can't look up, can't look Merle in the eye. His heart is still pounding, his ears are burning, and he can only focus on Charlotte, so deep is the pulse of self loathing. 

"Fucking city bitches," Merle scoops up the rope of squirrels, his movements jerky with anger. "Goddamn weak ass pansies, the whole lot of them, the fuck did she say to you anyhow?"

Daryl swallows over the lump in his throat and turns away, tucking himself and the baby into the tent. He's rocking on instinct, calming her until she settles in a light doze. It takes some time, but Merle eventually comes into the tent and zips it shut, giving them the illusion of privacy. 

"She asked about her," Daryl says, his words uneven, his throat clicking from dryness, "About her mother."

"Shit, is that all?" Merle snorts and crouches down, gripping Daryl's chin in his calloused fingers. "Listen to me, boy, an' listen good. All's you gotta say is that she's dead. You want all them to know the truth?"

Daryl blanches at that, his stomach rolling with fear. "No," he whispers.

"Then stick to what I told ya," Merle gentles his tone, his fingers brushing Daryl's cheek this side of lovingly. "Ain't nobody out there that needs to know how she came from you. Don't say nothin', you got me?"

Daryl can only nod, his head as heavy as a bag of bricks, and he accepts the brush of Merle's lips over his forehead, each breath shuddering in his throat. 

"Give 'er here, you go get them squirrels prepped, huh?"

With trust that he has for no one else, Daryl passes the sleeping baby to Merle, watching his lips curl with a hint of genuine affection at the way Charlotte snuffles and settles comfortably on Merle's broad chest. Merle catches his gaze and Daryl feels a lick of heat bloom in his cheeks, a mix of love, of fear, of shame coursing through him. 

It's a feeling he's known nearly all his life.

-


	13. Chapter 13

-

There's comfort in routine, in the same preparations he's done a hundred times before, and he can lose himself in the familiarity of skinning the squirrels for a few numbing minutes. The days have blurred since they'd arrived in the camp, and although the city people had initially reacted with disgust, they had quickly come around to the idea of eating squirrel meat if it meant that they wouldn't starve just yet. 

He's done quickly enough, the meat ready to go, and he's staring at the blood grimed into his knuckles, listening to the sound of his uneven breaths echoing in his ears. Merle had understood that he needed busy work, time to chase away the heaviness in his head. The shame's still there and he wishes he could shrug it off, it's no big deal, who the fuck cares...but deep down, it aches.

Breathe in, he thinks, staring until his hands are blurry. Breathe out, and remember Merle's words. His secret is safe, for now. They don't know, they _don't_. No one ever has to know, not unless it happens again. 

He chokes on his next breath, a wet sounding cough as a wave of pure fear rushes from his stomach to his toes. Not again, he prays, please, he's not sure he could handle it again. How could he cope again, surrounded by strangers, God, no, they'd run both him and Merle right out of the camp, that'd be the best case scenario.

His shoulders shaking, a panic attack on the verge of overwhelming him, he stares at his hands and remembers the pain, the hideous pain of struggling to bring Charlotte out of his body, the horror of what his body had done, of what he'd managed to do, and the hollowness that the process had left behind.

"Daryl?"

He flinches backwards, nearly falling out of the chair in the process, his eyes wet, his cheeks flushed. The old man, the one that stands on top of the R.V. most days, is looking down at him, concern and wariness etched in the lines of his face. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"The hell..." is all Daryl can manage. He's amazed that he let his guard down, that he's been caught off guard to begin with. He wipes at his eyes with his bare arm, miserably embarrassed as he gets to his feet.

The old man is standing a respectable distance away, his rounded shoulders slumped slightly. He's not much of a threat, regardless of the weapon hanging at his side. He's watching Daryl, standing stock still. 

"The fuck you want, old man?" Daryl's forcing a sneer, unconsciously pulling his imitation of Merle around himself like a security blanket. He can be a crude asshole from time to time, sure he can. "You lost?"

"Name's Dale, actually," he says. "Shane wanted me to come get the meat, if it's ready." 

His gaze wanders to the pile of raw meat sitting in the container they've been using, perched atop a hunk of wood that's been a makeshift table, and a look of reluctance passes over his face before it's gone, a passing cloud. 

Daryl grunts and grabs the container, pushing it at the other man with blood stained fingers. 

"Thanks," Dale's holding the container gingerly, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He's silent for a moment, hesitating, as if he's thinking better of speaking before he tilts his head and speaks.

"You're both welcome to join us at the campfire at night, you know."

"Not fuckin' likely."

Daryl's brushing past him and scooping up the crate of dirty clothes they've accumulated, plus the bag of Charlotte's cloth diapers, desperately eager to be away from the camp for awhile. He can't stand the feeling of being closed in, and he can't breathe here with this many people, this many strangers, all of them gawking and no doubt talking about the redneck trash in the far end of the camp. 

"You don't need to stay to yourselves, Daryl. We're a group. Think on it, will you?"

Daryl snorts, hefting the bag over his shoulder, the crate tucked under his other arm. "The hell y'all want with me or him anyway? Run outta shit to talk about already?"

Dale doesn't respond, he merely looks at him, studying Daryl's red rimmed eyes. Finally he nods, as if he sees something he understands, and takes a step back. "Nothing like that at all. Most of us want to get to know you better," he says with a soft tone. "Sometimes it helps, especially now. We've all experienced loss, we're all looking for something to hold onto."

Daryl's blood runs cold and he narrows his eyes at Dale, furious at the implied pity. "Get the fuck outta here," he growls before turning away and hurrying down the path that leads to the quarry, a large body of fresh water feeding into it. 

He doesn't look back and he's grimly pleased by the knowledge that if Dale does dare to hang around, it'll be Merle who goes after him next. 

-

He can see a group of some of the women down by the edge of the water, wash baskets in tow, talking amidst each other. He avoids their area, moving further back, almost hidden by the large crop of rocks there. The last thing he wants is more chitchat, more explanations. He practises what Merle told him to say, over and over, mumbling the phrase until he feels comfortable, until it's a sure reflexive statement. 

He can't let them know the truth.

As he scrubs at the clothes with his old wash brush, he hears light laughter drifting on the wind, feminine laughter. His skin crawls and he tries to shrug it off, rubbing harder at a bloodstain that's covering the right knee of a pair of Merle's pants. 

They aren't laughing about you, he thinks, clenching his teeth. Don't be so goddamned stupid. Women laugh, they talk about all kinds of things, you know that. He's rinsing, scrubbing, and wringing the clothes out until his knuckles are raw and aching, the sun beaming high in the sky. Mid day, he thinks, watching the puffy white clouds drift above them. 

He gathers the clothes, and the diapers, and he doesn't look over even though he knows the women are looking his way. 

Trudging back up the path, Daryl hears, rather than sees the women heading back as well. He's more than halfway up the path when he hears Lori sigh, mentioning how hard it's been on her son, losing his father this way. 

There's two blonde women with her, and the quiet one who hasn't so much as looked in his camp's direction, another that he doesn't recognize, and the woman who'd stared at him with the two kids when they'd first arrived.

He can't help but hear them discussing how her husband had died in the beginning of the outbreak, how his best friend had come to get her, come for her son, and taken them away before their town was overrun, and it hits him that she means the cop in charge of the camp, the one who's frequently at her side.

It gives him pause, thinking of how the cop had been earlier, the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd reacted to Merle's taunts. He chews on that thought, hefting the bag of clean diapers higher, swaying a little. He's tired, he hasn't slept well in longer than he can remember, and he's constantly on edge, waiting for something to happen, anything. 

He can feel the stares still as he veers off the path, hot prickling over his skin. Being around other people has never been easy for him, and being out in the open like this is rubbing him the wrong way. 

As he runs a length of rope between two of trees near their tent, tying it up to form a sturdy clothesline, he lets his thoughts wander, darting from the simple ones about how many snares they ought to set up to deeper ones about just how safe they really are in this camp. He knows about the tin cans that have been strung up along the perimeter, that they have rotating patrols every day to monitor such things, but it feels false, this pretend sense of security.

He doesn't trust these people with his life, much less Charlotte's. Merle's insistence that they stay for now is another puzzle to consider as he drapes the wet clothes over the rope, pinning the diapers in place. Merle's never been the kind to rely on anyone else for protection, but then, there can be safety in numbers. It's perplexing for sure.

More people means more noise. Even now, Daryl can hear the few kids in the camp playing down the way, though in a slightly more subdued manner than he'd expect. There's the odd cough now and again, people humming, a woman singing under her breath as she sweeps dirt from the entrance of her tent, several people talking, the rhythmic sounds of wood being chopped. It all chafes at him because this isn't his normal. 

The unexpected rise of anger swells and he stares at the ground, one of Charlotte's sleepers between his fingers, breathing in and out until he's certain that the anger has passed, unwilling to simmer in it, not now when Charlotte's nap would be over soon.

He moves through the motions, breathing in slow inhales and exhales to keep the panicky anger at bay. This isn't his normal, not even close, he's never had to live in such close quarters, never had to rely on anyone but Merle, and he hates the others for the way they stare, for the way Merle eggs them on, for giving even the smallest shit about it all. 

"Daryl!"

Merle's coming out of the tent, Charlotte whimpering in his arms. He's good with the baby, but only to a certain point. He thrusts her at him, irritation evident in his every movement. "Here, take 'er."

Daryl's got her, feeling her little fists clench on the fabric of his shirt. She's snuffling, whining lowly, and the anger simmers under his skin at the way Merle brushes past them, muttering under his breath as he goes. 

"I'm goin' back out while the light's still good," he says as he grabs his supplies. "Any of them come sniffin' around, you know what to do."

Daryl buries his face in Charlotte's hair, breathing in her sweet smell to keep his annoyance at bay. 

"You hear me, boy?"

"Yeah," Daryl mutters, swaying Charlotte from side to side slightly as her whimpering ebbs. 

Merle stares at him for a moment before he crosses the few paces between them and grips Daryl's chin in one big hand. "You 'member what I told you," he says, his grip light, his fingers almost soothing. "You don't answer to none of them."

He only nods in silence, tendrils of unease coiling nonetheless. He's not sure how long they can keep it all a secret. He can feel eyes on them, he knows that Merle's standing far too close to him, that the way he's touching Daryl is verging on more than brotherly. He can't breathe with the weight of this many people staring at him.

"Don't," he mumbles, pulling back, and the look on Merle's face makes something shrivel deep inside him. 

Merle clenches his jaw, nodding tightly. "Fine," he all but spits as he turns and stomps away from their camp site. 

It's a cold shiver that slides down his spine and he scowls reflexively, sneering at the people who are trying not to be obvious about watching. "The hell y'all looking at?!"

He can see the cop a few camp sites back, staring back at him intently, and he turns away, his shoulders hunched. He hates them, hates himself, and only Charlotte's cooing distracts him from his panicked anger and fear. 

-

It's tense in the days following, and Merle is rarely at the camp, preferring to stay in the woods. He hunts with a tenacity that Daryl's rarely seen, providing a steady supply of squirrels and rabbits. There's not that much in the way of larger animals, no deer to be seen, though it's not surprising with the noise that comes from the camp. 

There's an uneasy truce with other people. They don't come by the Dixon camp, Daryl doesn't speak to any of them, and Merle is Merle. He's as abrasive as ever, this side of rude and insulting, but the meat and the extra protection is a large incentive. 

Daryl spends most of his time occupied with Charlotte. She smiles and coos and tumbles around the pile of blankets at their site, drooling as she goes. He supposes that Lori must've spread the word about not getting too close to Charlotte or Daryl, since the other women don't come around asking questions. 

He prepares some of the meat, cleans their clothes, and hides in their tent during meal times, doing his best to keep how Charlotte eats a secret.

The water in the quarry is plenty warm and he finds a spot away from the common areas to bathe Charlotte. She delights in splashing up waves, squealing happily as Daryl lifts her up and around, swishing her back and forth. He knows that the women are watching, but he doesn't care as much if Charlotte's happy.

It's almost a peaceful time, so of course it shatters soon after. 

-

There's a lengthy discussion about how the camp supplies are running low. It's a necessity, without a doubt, but the main argument over who goes and who stays is what takes the most time to decide. Glenn knows the city roads, he's been responsible for sourcing out supplies in the nearby suburb since the formation of the group, there's Morales, and T-Dog, and two of the women that Daryl hasn't seen as much of, they're all going. 

Merle wades into the argument and demands that he come along. He's a hell of a sniper, his specialty during his less than illustrious time in the army, and like hell he'd stay behind on a supply run into Atlanta. 

There's more arguing, the cop and Merle at each other's throat, Daryl just barely able to keep Merle from attacking the other man. 

"We need people here to protect the camp."

Merle snorts and spits on the dirt, smirk firmly in place. "More supplies means less runs, that oughta makes things less dangerous, ain't that so, officer?"

Shane rubs a hand over his hair, clearly at his wit's end. "That may be so, but we need to protect the camp before all else. Ain't you worried about your family, Dixon?"

"You best shut yer mouth," Merle's smirk is gone now, his eyes glinting with an unfriendly gleam. "I'm goin' with. We all need as much as we can get our hands on, that's all there is to it."

Shane sighs and shakes his head. "Fine! Jesus fuck..." 

Daryl can't speak, can't take in enough air to bring the words past his lips. He says nothing as Merle sharpens his knife, as he loads ammo. There's no moisture in his throat. This isn't like the times before, where Merle would leave for a few days and come back flush with much needed items.

He stands in the tent, staring at nothing while Charlotte sleeps in the cradle, waiting, watching Merle prepare to leave them. His skin is chilled despite the heat, and he feels like a stiff wind could knock him clean over. 

"Daryl."

Merle's at the tent entrance, pushing his way inside, zipping it shut behind him. 

Daryl swallows over the dry lump in his throat, inclining his head to show he's paying attention. His arms are crossed protectively over his chest, almost hugging himself. 

"Aw, don't be like that," Merle's tone is chiding but light. "C'mon now, you know we need more. It's not like there's a store in town, or nothin'."

He nods, but he can't say what he's thinking, how he doesn't believe that they're safe here, that he wants to pack Charlotte and Merle in the truck and run, just get the fuck out of here. He inhales slowly, eyes beginning to burn with unshed tears. No, he won't cry, he can't, it's not like before he'd had Charlotte and he couldn't control how often his eyes had overflowed then. 

"You don't want her goin' without, right?"

Daryl hisses at that low blow, glaring at Merle finally. 

"You know I'm right."

Merle approaches him, sliding his arms around Daryl's tense sides, holding him in close. "This camp, these people, we don't need them, but she needs stuff, more than we got now."

With a deep sigh, Daryl leans against Merle, taking the comfort his brother's offering. "I know," he all but whispers. 

"It's gonna be alright, Daryl. It's fine. Stop that worryin'."

Merle's lips brush over Daryl's ear and he shivers, choking on everything he wants to say but can't. He accepts the light kiss brushed over his mouth, but he's still afraid, terribly afraid, and completely unable to say anything at all and as he watches Merle leave the tent, it's as if the last of his strength is gone, like he's weak in the knees. 

He breathes out, closing his eyes, and stands there until Charlotte's fretful cries reach his ears.

-


	14. Chapter 14

He's trying not to panic, he really is, but it's there, gnawing away in the back of his mind, a panic that just won't fade.

He's all too aware of the camp without Merle as his buffer. He can't breathe, the air's too thick and he's suffocating in the summer heat, trapped inside their tent, Charlotte tucked to his chest as she feeds, her tiny fingers gripping a fistful of Daryl's shirt. 

She's fussy, seemingly aware of Daryl's mental argument, her own agitation growing. He's trying to be calm, to act like it's like before the outbreak, it's just a supply run and Merle'll be back soon, he will, back with food, with weapons, with much needed baby items, like he always does.

It's easier said than done.

Charlotte whines as he burps her, whimpering and squirming as the gas is expelled from her stomach. She gums his shoulder, grunting and pushing down on him, almost as if she's trying to bite him.

"Shh, shh, baby," he murmurs, rocking her up and down gently, but it's to no avail.

Her cries grow stronger and as he checks her mouth, searching for the source of her distress, she finds the tip of his thumb and clamps down on it, gnawing as hard as she can, drool dripping down her chin.

He frowns in confusion at her. "S'alright, baby, c'mon now, s'ok," he soothes, letting her gum his thumb as it seems to calm her down.

Merle would know, he thinks with a pang of longing. He often seems to know things about Charlotte, things that confuse Daryl. The age difference between them seems far longer when it comes to Merle's understanding of babies.

Daryl knows enough, he knows how to diaper her, to feed her, he's got a knack for soothing her, but this, he has no reference for, no real experience with infants.

With the feeding done, he awkwardly buttons his faded shirt, grateful that Merle had ripped the sleeves off of it beforehand. He slumps back, weary and sweating, his stomach a hard knot. 

He won't be able to relax until Merle comes back, that much he's sure of.

-

The day seems to drag, the sun waning across the sky far slower than usual. Grey clouds drift in, low hanging and heavy with moisture, blotting out the sun every so often as thunder rumbles distantly. The air feels charged with electricity. 

Charlotte's still fussy, and he's at a loss for what to do, unable to soothe her fretting. He paces near their tent, jiggling her gently as he goes, trying his best to stay calm.

The others are worried, he can see it on their faces, see the pinched expressions and frequent glances back at the entrance of the quarry. The young blonde girl, she's the loudest one about it, asking what's taking them so long, Glenn's missions never took this long usually, it shouldn't take hours and hours. She's voicing what they're all thinking, and even if he agrees, Daryl's not about to say anything.

He paces and walks a slow circle with Charlotte, lulling her into a half sleep, her fingers clamped between her lips. He can see one of the women close by, the quiet one with her hair buzzed short, she's folding shirts and sneaking glances in his direction each time he circles with the baby.

She doesn't look at him directly, more of a sidelong glance, and he knows that motion all too well. He's heard the bitten off cries coming from the direction of her tent, he can almost see where her bruises might be. Her husband keeps his distance, but he knows that's only because of Merle. He's the spineless kind of abuser, the kind that backs down from a bigger alpha male. 

It's the third or fourth time that she's glanced in his direction before he glares back at her, sneer at the ready, but she's not staring at him, not really, she's looking at Charlotte. 

His hackles rise and he hunches his shoulders, daring her to look again, he knew he should've stayed closer to his tent, it won't be long before this one's coming over and sticking her nose in. She doesn't, though. She folds another shirt neatly, deft fingers moving over the fabric. There's a pile to be handed out, stacked next to her. 

Daryl waits, but when nothing happens, he relaxes slightly. Charlotte's whimpering again, unhappy cries fast becoming wails, and he hates that he hasn't a clue as to what's wrong, not when all the usual tricks aren't working. 

He paces another circle, letting her gum his finger as he tries not to stare at the road that leads into the camp.

"I think she might be teething."

He almost doesn't hear the words, they're so softly spoken. He's turning and staring at her in flat disbelief that she's spoken to him at all. 

"What?"

She looks around, but her husband isn't nearby. She lifts her head and looks him in the eyes, though her tone is still soft and appeasing.

"Your baby," she nods, shaking out a shirt as she speaks. "My daughter fussed like that when she was cutting her first tooth. It hurts, so they drool and cry. They'll bite down to ease the pain."

"Who asked you?" he snaps even as Charlotte brings her gums down on his finger, harder this time, and goddamn it, doesn't he feel something hard, something sharp, on her bottom gum line.

He tips her back, examining the tiny nub of white he can see just beginning to jut through her swollen, angry red gum line. The guilt floods in so fast that his stomach sinks. He had no clue. He silently berates himself, rubbing gently as Charlotte cries.

"She'll be alright," the woman's giving him a slight smile, meant to be reassuring, he figures. 

He grunts, focused on the baby, his thumb brushing the tears dripping down her cheek. She sniffles, giving him a watery smile as he rocks her slowly, humming under his breath to her. As she calms, the weight on his chest loosens.

Teething. He'd never given it a thought. There's lingering guilt still, but he's relieved to see that she's calming down a little. He looks back to the woman who's loading the stacks of clothing in a laundry basket, watching her work. He's suspicious, even now.

It feels like they're waiting to see what he'll do without Merle in front of him, it feels like he's on display, and he'd hide out in the tent but the heat, God, the heat is unrelenting in there. It's too sticky, much too humid in such a small space. He can't lock himself or Charlotte in there. 

There's thunder booming again, crackling in the distance, and his palms are slick with sweat. He paces anxiously, refusing to look at any of the people milling about. The young blonde is getting louder, and finally the old man looks up from the engine he's been poking at with the weird bearded guy, and tells her that worrying won't make it better. 

Daryl rolls his eyes. The stupid fuck, of course she's going to worry about her sister. He rocks Charlotte as he slows his steps, the cop only a few feet away. How did he get so far from his tent, he wonders as he sees the cop painstakingly showing the young boy next to him how to tie knots.

It's the skinny woman's kid, he realizes. He's kept himself from these city people so effectively that he doesn't know half their names, but he recognizes the boy. He's got the look of his mother to him, and he can see her, standing next to that quiet woman, watching him with narrowed eyes. 

The cop's pretending he's not keeping tabs on Daryl while he smiles with the boy, showing him the same knot several times,and he's aware of it, just as he's aware of the dislike in Lori's face when she makes eye contact with him. 

City pricks, he thinks venomously, glaring at them all. 

They stare, God, how he hates that. They want to ask him things, they want to see Charlotte, they don't understand how he has an infant, who'd give someone like _him_ a baby? Then there's Merle, and he's the rough spot grinding on every exposed nerve, seemingly oblivious to how disliked he is by the group, to how uncomfortable Daryl is. 

The heat's beating down, thunder growling as the darkly bruised storm clouds gather over Atlanta, and he feels more than sees the woman watching him again. With a silent snap, his control breaks, and then he's gone, walking back to their tent, his breath hitching in his throat. He'll scream if he has to look at the cop, or the women, for one minute more. He doesn't think, just moves, and he grabs Charlotte's bag, stuffing items into it blindly. He can't stay here, he can't think, he needs to hunt, he has to get out of the camp, even for a few hours.

The bag in one hand, he snags his crossbow from the side of the tent, the weight of it a comforting balm to his unhappy thoughts. He lets out a shaky breath and ducks back out of the tent. He stops only long enough to be sure that Charlotte is secure in her sling before disappearing up the path behind their tent, enveloped by the trees around him. 

-

It's late when he comes back, later than even he expected. 

The camp is quiet, the fires banked for the night. With near silent footsteps, Daryl picks his way through the darkness to his tent, mindful of the sleeping baby on his chest. Exhausted, he all but collapses in the tent, pausing long enough to put his crossbow off to the side, Charlotte's diaper bag nearby. 

For several minutes, he simply sits on his sleeping bag, his limbs trembling. With a long, slow breath, he unhooks the sling around him, easing the baby out and into her cradle. He tucks a blanket over her and sits back down. It's not lost on him that Merle's not there, that night has fallen and the group's clearly not back yet. 

It's too soon for panic, he tells himself sternly while he pulls his boots off. 

Merle had often left for days on end before. He always came back.

That was then, though. He grimaces and curls up on the sleeping bag, snagging a granola bar from their dwindling stash of food rations. He's not hungry, not even a little, but Merle had explained in a round about way months ago that Daryl had to make sure he ate each day in order to keep producing milk. He wrinkles his nose, eating the bar with mechanical bites. It's dry and tasteless. 

The hunting hadn't gone well, though he supposes that being in the wrong state of mind didn't help much. He's got a few squirrels to show for it, stowed outside in their metal bin. He hates to admit it, but Merle had been right about trying to hunt with a baby strapped to him. Her weight throws off his ability to hold and aim his crossbow, her noises warn off their prey. 

He swallows a mouthful of water from his nearly empty canteen, washing away the powdery residue of the granola bar. Tomorrow's another day, he muses. He can try again, it might be easier with full daylight. Charlotte's quiet enough most of the time.

He stares at the ceiling of the tent, his arms crossed over his chest. He stares and wills his fear to ebb. His breathing catchs again and again, there's not enough air in his lungs, and he can't drag in enough, not when he feels like he's drowning in fear. He hates this, oh how he hates feeling weak, but he can't stop it anymore than he could stop what happened to him the day he'd given birth. 

It's the chill at the back of his neck, the unshakeable fear of all the what-ifs piling on his shoulders, weighing him down, pinning him to his sleeping bag while he tries his best to not have a full blown panic attack. His heart is pounding and he's sure, so sure that something's wrong. 

Charlotte whimpers in her sleep, and that's all the excuse he needs to scoop her up and tuck her to his chest, hiding her there as he slides under the sleeping bag to keep her warm. She settles back in, comfy now in her favourite place, and Daryl tries not to choke on his fear as he holds her. 

He doesn't want to do this without Merle, he realizes as he starts to drift off to sleep. 

-

It feels like it's only been a few minutes before Charlotte's awake and patting at Daryl's neck, cooing and making small sounds of amusement. His eyelids feel like sandpaper, and his throat is all gravel when he tries to speak her name. She's smiling though, chortling as she bumps her head into his chin, nudging him determinedly.

"Alright, alright," he mutters, his lips curving into a smile regardless. "I get it."

He brushes the wisps of hair back from her forehead, watching her bright eyes gleam in the dim morning light. "Hungry, I bet?" 

She coos and reaches her arms up, wriggling about. 

"Mhm, I know," he says, running his finger down her soft cheek. She seems in better spirits today, with the tooth having broken the surface of her gum line the day before. "Get ya changed, then eat, huh?"

Preoccupied with Charlotte's morning routine, Daryl hardly hears the sounds of other people waking up around their tent. He knows he slept, but it hardly feels like it. He changes her diaper, puts her into a clean onesie, and then feeds her, wincing a few times when she clamps down a bit with her new tooth. It occurs to him that this might hurt more when she has more teeth. 

With the baby fed, burped, and content to play with her preferred soft blankie, Daryl strips his dirty shirt off and digs through their crate of clothes, pawing out one that looks a touch cleaner than the others. He doesn't look at the light marks on his stomach or at the slight swell of his chest, just pulls the shirt on, ignoring the way his fingers feel icy cold. 

He can't shake the feeling, and he's already dreading going into the camp. The girl will be upset that her sister still isn't back, the others will be worrying. He doesn't need their panic to add to his.

There's more noise now, and he gathers Charlotte up, putting her into her sling as he goes. There's still work to be done, he knows, and Merle in Atlanta or no, it's no excuse to slack off. There's laundry, always, and he needs to prep the squirrels from the other day, there's traps to be made, and yet, when he steps outside the tent, he can feel it, there's this wall, a block of odd silence meeting him. 

No one's looking his way. At all. 

He frowns and tries to ignore it. Charlotte's happy enough as he goes through his morning routines, but he's all too aware that the other people are almost...avoiding looking at him.

His stomach twists, fear licking along his spine anew. Something's wrong, he can't shake it, he can't and as he putters about, making new snares, his fingers trembling faintly, he feels like he's waiting for some explosion, some crushing force, a wall of Walkers, _something_.

By the time Charlotte's asleep in her cradle for her mid morning nap, he's all but thrumming with nervous energy. Though the idea of leaving her for even a few feet away bothers him, he knows she's fine for as long as it takes for him to bring the prepped meat to the cop. 

The sun's beating down already and he's sweating as he trudges up the path, metal bin in hand. As he comes around the corner, he can see a group of people coming from a nearby clearing and his heart starts to pump faster. He can see a cargo truck that wasn't there the day before, some sporty red car in front of it that's in the process of being stripped.

They're back. 

His lips start to curve in a smile of relief and as he calls Merle's name, he sees the cop striding toward him, his expression grim. There's a half second where he wants to run back to his tent, there's a flick of desperate disbelief and he can see it, see the way the cop's looking at him before he even opens his mouth.

"Daryl, we need to talk to you."

He speaks through numb lips, the bin sagging in his hand. "'Bout what?"

The cop sighs. "About Merle," his lips twist as he speaks his name. "There was...there was a problem in Atlanta."

No...

He stares at Shane, his eyes hooded. There's a faint burning under his eyelids and he blinks rapidly, but it's no use. "He dead?" 

"We're not sure."

There's more people coming up behind the cop, some guy he's never seen a few steps behind Shane.

"Either he is or he ain't," he growls, his shoulders hunching as he turns away. 

The new guy, he steps up, moves to the cop's side, and his face, oh Christ, his face is apologetic, deep lines of sorrow. He doesn't want to hear this. Fuck, wake up, wake up, he chants silently.

"There's no easy to say this, so I'll just say it," the guy speaks with the same coaxing tone the cop uses and his throat locks up tight.

Daryl eyes him, pinging him for a cop of some kind. "Who are you?"

"Rick Grimes."

"You got somethin' you wanna tell me?" he sneers, and he can almost hear Merle adding 'officer' in that disrespectful way of his.

"Your brother was a danger to us all, so I handcuffed him on a roof, to a metal pipe. He's still there."

Merle. 

Daryl feels his vision haze over and he sways, a hysterical breath choking behind his lips. 

Oh god, Merle. 

He swallows over the lump in his throat, thinking about the day Charlotte was born, about the look of awe on Merle's face, the way he'd held Charlotte so gently in his rough hands, and he's losing his grip on his temper, losing the battle over his desperate urge to scream. There's too many people looking at him, too much sympathy in their eyes, too much open curiosity.

"You handcuffed my brother to a roof, and you left him there!?" 

Rick nods once. "Yeah..."

He doesn't stop to think, he just explodes. He's running, whipping the metal bin at the other man, in such a rage of blind hatred, and even as the tears stream from his eyes, even as he's pulled away, Shane's strong arms pinning him down, yanking him back in a chokehold, he can't seem to silence his screams.

He's panting, his skin crawling at the feel of someone touching him, and he sees the look on the man's face, sees his eyes track over the exposed skin on Daryl's stomach where his shirt has rucked up, exposing the pink marks that Charlotte left on him. 

"I...I want to have a calm discussion with you about this," Rick says, and to his credit, his voice only falters once. "What I did, I didn't do on a whim. Your brother does not play well with others."

"Shane, let him go," Daryl dimly hears from beside them, and he flushes, shame flooding through his entire body at the way Lori is staring wide eyed at his stomach, and then at his face, and he knows, fucking hell, he knows what she's put together.

Shane looks to the other man, waiting for his nod before he lets go. Though the gesture feels meaningless, Daryl still yanks his shirt down, his face stained a deep red. He's so embarrassed he could weep. 

"It's not Rick's fault," T-Dog adds, watching Daryl closely, ready for him to attack. "I had the key. I dropped it."

"You couldn't pick it up?" Daryl's voice wavers and he blinks back the hated tears that are threatening to overflow. 

Merle...

"I dropped it down the drain."

He pushes to his feet. He's almost dizzy with the desperate urge to flee and the way Rick's looking at him, the way Lori had looked at him, he feels so fucking dirty, so ashamed. They'll know, they'll all know what he's done, they'll say terrible things about her. He's sucking in panicked breaths, and he whirls away, facing the ground, his shoulders hunched up. 

"The hell with all y'all!" He tries to yell it, but his voice cracks, and a tear slides down his cheek. They left him to die, they left him to be eaten, Jesus Christ, he can't stand it. "Jus' tell me where he is, so I can go get him..."

"Daryl, I don't think that's such a good idea," the old man's sidling up closer, and they're all watching him warily. 

"I don't give a fuck what you think," Daryl sniffs and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. 

"What about your daughter?" 

His shoulders sag, and Daryl hangs his head, trembling violently. "Shut up."

"You can't seriously mean to go into Atlanta with her to find him."

"Shut up," he hisses through clenched teeth, and as he hears the footsteps nearing him, he tenses, his fingers curled into a fist. 

Rick's eyes, his face so solemn and sad, the guilt is coming off him in waves, and Daryl can't, he can't do this. He shudders and takes a step back, not willing to look the other man in the eyes. 

"I won't leave him there," Rick's tone is gentle, almost soothing. "I'm going back for him."

"What?" Shane blurts, flabbergasted. "For a douche bag like Merle Dixon?"

Daryl hisses at him, enraged again. "Shut the fuck up!"

Rick shakes his head and his gaze drifts to Daryl's stomach for a split second, long enough for him to see the motion. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Daryl."

He swallows again and again, jagged lumps blocking his throat. 

Merle. 

He can't leave him, he can't leave Charlotte with these people, he can't bring Charlotte into a city swarming with dead people. Guilt weighs on him, horrible guilt that takes his breath, that makes him feel faint. Either choice is a death sentence for the other. 

Merle, oh God, he can't leave him like this.

-


	15. Chapter 15

It feels like hours have passed, shouldn't the sun be down by now, but no, no, it's only been a few minutes. 

They're all still standing there, a silent sentry, watching it all unfold. His skin is crawling and it's with serious effort that he doesn't full out run down the path. It's been too long, she'll have been on her own too long now. He doesn't look at the cop beside him, and yes, he's sure that this new man is a cop, he can't look at him, he doesn't want to see the sadness or sympathy on his face. He's the cause for this. The hatred he has is overwhelming, he hates them all, he hates himself.

"Look, going back into Atlanta, Rick, that's just insanity," Shane's trying to reason with him and Daryl can barely restrain the urge to tackle him, to beat his face into the ground. "The other way around? Merle Dixon would've left you to rot."

"What he would or wouldn't do doesn't interest me," Rick's gaze flickers to Shane, but he's still mostly looking at Daryl. "I can't let a man die of thirst or exposure. We left him like an animal caught in a trap. That's no way for anything to die, let alone a human being."

Daryl make a soft sound, a wounded noise that he tries and fails to keep to himself. 

Merle.

"I'll go with you," T-Dog says as he moves a tentative step closer to Daryl, as if expecting him to attack again. "I chained the door to the stairwell, it should've held."

He can't help but glare, hideous anger still roaring with each heartbeat. "That don't make it better."

"Daryl, I won't leave him like this," Rick's caught his gaze and his fingers curl into fists as he stares back. 

"An' I'm supposed to trust you?" he spits, his upper lip drawn back in a snarl. "The guy that handcuffed my brother an' left him! Left him to die!"

"You don't have any reason to believe me, I know that, but I'm asking you to."

Daryl snorts as he paces a few quick steps. He's caged in by them all and Shane's ready and waiting to tackle him if he makes any sudden moves, he knows that with great certainty. 

Sweat drips down his face, burning his eyes and mixing with the tears that keep trying to fall, his chest heaves, and all he can think of is Merle, dehydrated and starving, Merle clawing at his handcuff, left without a weapon, unable to fight off any walkers, fading slower and slower, weaker by the hour until he's a corpse, still cuffed as he turns, undead and unrecognizable. Horror lances through him and the desperate anger rushes up through his veins.

Merle...

"An' what happens if there's a swarm of 'em, huh? You gonna fight just for him?"

Shane makes a choked off sound, deep in his throat, like the very idea offends him. 

Rick's got that sorry, sad look to his eyes still, and his gaze lingers once more on Daryl's mid section. 

"I won't leave him there," he says again, like repeating it will make Daryl trust him. 

"Yeah, sure," he scoffs, swiping at his face, ignoring the contemplative gaze before him. "I'm not talkin' anymore. I don't need any of y'all, me and him got on fine before we came here, an' I'll be fine with just me and her."

He starts for the trail back to the tent, tears stinging under his eyelids. He wants to weep, he wants to scream, he wants, God, he wants to see Merle one more time.

"You can't risk it, not with a baby in tow."

"I ain't leaving her here, either." 

He glares at Rick over his shoulder. There's more that he wants to say, but it's choking him, broken words and howls of hatred lodged in his throat.

"She ain't safe with any of y'all. I don't trust none of you."

"Atlanta's no safer, Daryl," Rick's fast, moving in closer, determined, and unwilling to back down. "There'll be far more Walkers, it's too dangerous to try."

Fear prickles along his spine and like a movie before his eyes, he sees it happen, grasping filthy fingers dragging Charlotte from him, a frenzy of rotted hands ripping her to bloody pieces. A harsh whimper catches behind his lips, betraying him. 

Rick tilts his head, watching Daryl. "I know you don't want that to happen," he says, and his voice is firm, a reassuring tone that makes Daryl want to listen even as he's shaking his head and backing away.

"I can't," he rasps, almost tripping over his own feet as he staggers backward. "I can't leave her."

With that, he turns and it's all a blur as he runs back to his tent, their tent, Merle could be dying right now, and he's heaving for air as the panic swells, his hands clenching on nothing. He can hear faint bleats coming from his tent, the indignant wails of a baby left unattended for too long. Within seconds, he's there, scooping her out of the cradle and holding almost too tightly to her tiny body. She whines, tear streaked cheeks flushed bright red, her breath hitching as her wails taper off. 

"M'sorry," he whispers frantically, rocking her against his chest. "God, baby, m'so sorry, shh now, it's gonna be okay, I swear."

He snuffles, swallowing over the wet sobs lodged in his throat. His brain is all but buzzing and time is running out for Merle, but Charlotte's pushing at his chest, nudging at his shirt. She's cuddled into him, sniffling, her fingers curling into little fists along the edges of his slightly overgrown hair, and his chest aches, his nipples beginning to leak. He's trembling again, panic huge and horrible, and oh the guilt, he can barely breathe for the guilt that's suffocating him. 

He can't do this, he can't decide which life means more, and he's choking back tears as he rocks her, mumbling apologies to her over and over, as he tries and fails to calm down. 

"Daryl?"

"Get out," he manages to say, keeping his back to the tent entrance. 

"I...I'm sorry."

It's her, that fucking skinny broad. He can't believe the nerve of her and as he turns, he gives her a look of pure hate, his lips pulled back over his teeth. She's wide eyed, clearly nervous, but she stands there regardless, hesitating in the opening.

"Out," he hisses.

"I'm sorry about Merle," she says as though he hasn't spoken. "And, and I wanted to know...to let you..."

His throat works and the hatred is burning him up from the inside out. He's so shame filled, so full of loathing that there's hardly room for much else. His shirt is wet clear through, and Charlotte's grunting on him, trying to reach low enough to latch on through the fabric. Lori stares, endlessly stares, and he can hear the unspoken questions, can see his biggest nightmare unfolding before him. 

"Wanna know what?" He shifts Charlotte to the side and yanks his soaked shirt off, exposed now, and though a part of him could die from that fact, another part is somewhat sickly relieved to not be hiding. "You been dyin' to know e'vrything, huh?"

She presses her lips together in a thin line and shakes her head. "I don't know if anyone other than myself or Rick saw," she murmurs, "and...and, I'm not planning on saying anything. I...I thought you might be a..."

"I ain't a girl!" 

He can't look at her anymore. His bravado's crumbling fast. He moves Charlotte back into place and turns away from Lori, letting the baby latch on. His ears and neck burn blood red. 

He's exposed either way.

The stretch marks on his stomach...

The scars that run different lengths on his back...

The baby he's breastfeeding...

"I...I'm not," his voice breaks on the denial. "It...she jus', it happened an' I don't know why or how, but I ain't, I never..."

"Oh," is all Lori says. She exhales slowly. "Okay...I, okay."

He hangs his head, sick to his stomach. "It ain't her fault she was born. She didn't ask for it."

But he did, oh he did. The things he let Merle do to him, the things he wanted him to do. He can't explain it to this woman and expect her to understand. He hates that he's this weak, that he let it all happen in the first place. 

"You mean..."

He says nothing. He can't. His throat bobs and a tear drops down his cheek. She'll tell them all, he doesn't care what she promises. His only choice is to leave before it gets worse. Another tear rolls down his other cheek, dripping down to splash on his arm. 

"Oh," she says again, like she has nothing else to say. 

"G'on then, go tell 'em all." Daryl sniffs, swiping at his nose with the side of his hand. 

"No," she shakes her head, and he looks back at her, surprised to see a gleam of unshed tears in her eyes. "I wouldn't, I won't, Daryl."

"Why?"

There's genuine sympathy on her face and while he instinctively shies from it, he sees something else there, an almost understanding of how it can be to make such a decision, to have to live with it on your heart forever. He thinks of the tall cop, of how he looks at Lori, of the undeniable tension between them and the new cop, even when the attention was on him, and he nods, once.

"No one needs to know," her tone's as soft as a whisper, a gentle promise.

He doesn't speak and the seconds drag by, the silence of the tent punctuated only by the sounds of Charlotte feeding. He swallows thickly, a weary devastation clouding his thoughts. 

"Rick will go back for him. He won't leave him there, Daryl."

"You so sure?" He can't look at her anymore, so he fixes his gaze on the floor of the tent, his fingers smoothing Charlotte's sweaty hair back in gentle motions. 

She's smiling a brittle smile, one that he can just see from the corner of his eye, and it's a sad ghost of a thing, and he has a flash again, remembering what she'd said before to the other women about her husband, about his best friend, and the realization snaps into place, and he stares back at her, watching her blink until the watery sheen ebbs.

"He doesn't lie."

He can hear more footsteps outside his tent, more people coming down to watch the rest of this unholy circus, and he tenses all the more, cringing as the sound of the two cops bickering back and forth only inches away from him intensifies. 

"...don't get it, you're barely here a few hours an' now you're runnin' back?"

Lori's mouth tightens again and she steps out of the tent for a moment, her eyes flashing with barely veiled impatience. 

"Rick."

Daryl exhales a slow breath, desperately clinging to some tattered shreds of dignity. He keeps his back to the entrance of his tent, unwilling to endure the same discussion again. 

"Not now," Rick murmurs and he steps into the tent, hovering close to Lori. He doesn't quite look her in the eyes, but his hand brushes hers.

"T-Dog and Glenn are coming with me. We're getting ready to go."

Daryl doesn't respond. He stares down at Charlotte's cradle, heat licking the back of his neck. His humiliation is all encompassing. The most he can manage is a half-hearted grunt.

"It's asking a lot, maybe even too much, but this is my responsibility," Rick's voice is back to a coaxing tone, authoritative and so very certain. "Your daughter needs you far more, and I'm sure your brother understands that."

Daryl snorts softly at the very implication that this _cop_ could understand Merle. In another life, Rick and Shane would be leading the charge to jail Merle, given half the chance.

"Yeah? What happens when you come back with some sob story on why he ain't with you?"

Rick takes another step closer and Daryl hunches his shoulders instinctively, shying away from him. 

"I can't guarantee anything, but I can't not do anything either."

There's a beat, a long moment of silence. The raw panic lingers and the weighty guilt is ever present, but he can't, he just can't leave her, God forgive him. He exhales, a cold chill racing over his sweat soaked skin despite the smothering heat around them. He nods finally and ignores the tear that drips from his left eye at the motion. He can feel the unspoken discussion occurring behind him between Lori and Rick, feel the sweat trickling down his back even though his teeth want to clack together. 

Merle...

He closes his eyes and waits endlessly until Rick clears his throat, the sound breaking the silence.

"I left a bag of guns behind when I was in Atlanta. We need the ammo, badly. It's right close to the building where your brother is. We'll get the guns, and we'll cut Merle loose. If everything goes well, we'll be back by sunset."

His stomach clenches, and he swallows down the greasy wave of nausea scorching up his throat. He doesn't believe him, not at all, and he knows that there isn't a happy ending waiting to happen, it never does, not for him, not for any of them anymore. All he can do is let his head nod, only once, because if he opens his mouth, he'll start screaming. 

Rick exhales, long and slow. He raises his hand, lets his fingers hover over Daryl's shoulder, hesitating before he thinks better of it and steps back, nodding to Lori. She follows him out of the tent, one lingering glance at Daryl before the tent entrance flaps limply against the frame. 

He waits until the footsteps are gone before he allows the tears to fall unchecked, muffled into his right hand.

\- 

The sound of the white truck rumbling down the dirt road fills the air, fading out rapidly, and the silence that falls over the camp is deafening. Even the birds are silent, no chittering from the trees, the wind hardly ruffling a single leaf. It's hot, hotter than Daryl thought possible, and he can't hide much longer in their tent, not with how the sun is blazing down. With a ratty sleeveless shirt covering his stomach anew, he ducks out of the tent, Charlotte safe in his arms. There's a faint hum of noise now, chores to be done regardless of the so-called rescue mission happening, and there's a look of relief to some of the people absorbed in their busywork tasks.

Down by the water is relatively cooler, and Daryl doesn't waste a moment in finding an area further away from where the women do the washing. He can see the women there, the quiet one's husband supervising in a way that makes the hair rise on the back of his neck. He's an asshole, that much Daryl is sure of, the kind who enjoys hurting others. The surly expression on his face is all the confirmation he needs whenever a sound of amusement drifts from the women. 

The tall cop's got the brown haired kid with him, Lori's boy, Daryl notes absently as he strips Charlotte of her sweat soaked sleeper, and swishes her gently in the warm water. They're further along, crouching in the water, something to do with frogs and the methods of catching them. The boy laughs delightedly as they try and fail to catch one.

Charlotte's happy enough to be in the water, splashing and cooing, unaware of the way the tall cop keeps looking over at them. He does his best to ignore him, but Daryl can't help noticing the intensity of the stares. He's watching them back, watching the women staring at them, fuck he hates being stared at. He's knows that they must be curious, who wouldn't be, watching the weird redneck family in action.

With clenched teeth, he turns away until he hears the sounds of arguing, Lori up in Shane's face with a venomous cast to her eyes and a guilty haze all but emanating from them. They're arguing quietly, intense words exchanged, and Shane turns away as Lori stalks off in a huff, and Daryl can see it, see everything that he had guessed right then on the other man's face. 

He's trying not to pay attention, but as he finishes dressing Charlotte, he hears the sudden commotion, a slap that echoes across the quarry, and the women shrieking, and his stomach sinks at the thought of Walkers before he sees it's the prick husband they're raging at. 

With Charlotte tucked against his chest, he creeps closer in time to see Shane hauling the man away from the women, see him throwing the man down to the gravel, and he watches, somewhat awed, as Shane rains blows on the man's face. There's blood, sick thuds of bone on bone, and his heart is pounding at the viciousness of the attack. The women are holding the quiet one back as she weeps, the sounds mixed in with the grunts and yells, and even Charlotte stays quiet as Shane looms over the prone man on the ground, righteous fury booming from him, drips of garishly bright blood running off the tips of his fingers. 

"You put your hands on your wife, your little girl, or anybody else in this camp, and next time I won't stop. I'll beat you to death, Ed. Do you understand me?" Shane all but roars in panted breaths, watching the man choke on mouthfuls of blood.

There's a faint yes, and Daryl can't look away as Shane stands, kicking as hard as he can into the man's side, sickening cracks that make him wince. He hardly sees the women, he can only see the blood dripping from Shane's fist, slick drops that have his stomach hitching, and he sees Shane turn, locking gazes with him, a pause that hangs as his heart thuds.

Shane grunts and turns away, his long legs crossing the gravel, and Daryl lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. There's a pang of knowing that the other cop isn't here to stop Shane, and he longs for Merle anew, and even as he thinks it, he knows it's useless to hope. The sun's still high overhead, the woman is sobbing over her husband, begging forgiveness, and in the distance Daryl fancies he can hear Merle calling his name. Any minute now.

-

He tries to pass the time, tries not to imagine what must be happening in Atlanta, but he can see the sun slowly creeping across the sky, time's running faster by the hour. There's panic under his skin, ever buzzing, and he tries to focus on Charlotte, but even she's quieter than normal, subdued as she gums her favourite blanket, wide blue eyes watching Daryl's every movement.

No matter the promises Rick made, he doesn't trust him, even if deep down he wants to. 

_He doesn't lie..._

A good man, that's what she implied, he thinks as he studiously folds and refolds Charlotte's clothing into one of their duffel bags. He tucks them into the smallest corner of the bag, his fingers trembling as he does so. A good man, a man of honour, one who wouldn't leave a another person to die so carelessly, even if that person is someone like Merle. He sighs and tucks a thin blanket into a tiny square. He's spent his life following his brother, pretending to be just like him, and he can't fathom life without Merle.

He could stay with these people, he thinks as he chews on his thumbnail, biting almost to the quick. He could, sure he could, they clearly need someone to help with the demands of fresh meat, and none of them have the first clue how to survive long term without their city comforts, that much is obvious to him. He tucks the carefully rationed packages of beef jerky and granola bars that Merle foists on him daily into the bag, swallowing over the lump in his throat. The tears he hates so much are threatening again and he feels sick at the idea of eating another fucking dusty granola bar. 

Charlotte coos, waving her spit covered hand about, blankie clasped between her chubby fingers. Despite his sorrow, he smiles crookedly. She coos louder, gumming on the wet material, oblivious to the fading afternoon. 

Life without Merle...He's never truly contemplated it. He'd thought of it from time to time over the years, had lived it when Merle was in the army, in jail even, but he'd always known that it was only temporary, that sooner or later his larger than life brother would come hollering up the dirt driveway, cocky smirk in place, and a rough, demanding kiss for the only person he ever cared about. 

His breath catches and he hunches his shoulders, stuffing more items into the bag, Merle's knives, a box of bullets, and a few shirts for himself. His fingers catch on the tufted fabric on the back of a vest, white-ish grey feathers that run the length of the old leather. His smile fades and tears threaten under his eyelids. Merle's old vest, the one that he'd begged to wear when he was a kid, the one that Merle had grudgingly given him once he headed off to the army. His breath comes in bursts, his shoulders shake, and he knows, oh God, he knows as the sun begins to set outside and there's still no cargo truck rumbling into the camp ground, that he's gone, Merle's not coming back. 

Daryl rubs one hand over his face, anger warring with his desperate fear. He can't stay with these people, these _yuppies_ , with the cop responsible for this. He breathes and breathes until the pain gives, and when it does, resumes packing the bag, ready and waiting for some unheard signal. 

-

Night falls, and though the old man had stopped by yet again to invite him, Daryl refuses to leave his tent area. He doesn't want to play nice with any of them, he doesn't want to answer any questions, he doesn't want any of them touching Charlotte. He waits, keeping his small fire stoked. Charlotte's asleep in the cradle, her forehead furrowed as though troubled in her rest. His heart's pounding harder and harder in his chest, and he blinks rapidly, watching the flames of the fire with great intent. 

Soft laughter floats on the air from the main campsite, the smell of cooked fish making his mouth water. The quiet woman had left some fish for him at the edge of his tent, a silent offer that he'd ignored. He can hear them talking, laughing like this is some big reunion, an outdoor party, not the end of the damned world. There's the usual rustling of leaves overhead, the faint tinkling of the empty tin cans roped along the perimeters of the camp ground, sticks crackling in the fires, Charlotte's tiny snores from inside the tent. 

Merle...

He can't help the longing gazes towards the main pathway. He's near desperate to hear the sound of an engine grumbling up the quarry, to hear the raucous sound of his brother casually insulting everyone in his path, he needs to see him, oh this was a mistake, staying here like this, waiting, endlessly fucking waiting when his brother needs him. Merle, who was there when Daryl needed him most, when he was terrified and in horrendous pain, pushing Charlotte helplessly from his body, Merle, the only person who ever loved him, the only person to ever touch him gently. 

Panic claws at him, raw and wild, and he wants to howl out the agony of being forced to wait like this, and that's when he hears it, hears heavy footsteps rustling through the bushes, hears the shrill scream of pain and fear. He looks to the main fire, sees the bodies moving, and he knows that the Walkers have come. For an endless second he freezes, and it's an eternity all on its own, before he reacts, scooping up his crossbow from the packed duffel bag at his side. With only a pause long enough to zip the tent mostly shut, and a crazed hope that it'll be a deterrent for as long as he needs, he's off and running towards the terrified group.

It's mayhem, absolute chaos, and people are screaming, running here and there, staggering bodies giving chase. He draws, aims, shoots, draws, aims, shoots on reflex, taking down as many as he can, the only light coming from the stars above and the fire flickering behind him. Bodies drop, blood pours, wails and screams flood the camp. His knife is his back up and he can hear a clamour of shouts coming up the quarry pathway, gunshots echoing overhead. 

He spots Lori grabbing Carl, Shane and his rifle booming in the night, the bat of another man slamming into the head of a Walker, and finally, Rick, T-Dog, Glenn, bringing up the rear, guns firing as more screams fill the air, and the last of the Walkers fall.

It's over in minutes, a deafening silence falling but for the gasps of the survivors.

The blond woman is crouched over her sister next to the r.v., and even at a distance Daryl can see the gaping wound that was her neck. The blood pumps out of her in weak gushes. He swipes his hand over his mouth, sweat and dirt smearing over his face as he turns away, unable to bear the sound of anguished sobs.

And as he turns, he sees Rick anew, sees his shocked, pale white face, sees him clutching his son to his chest, and he knows. For a moment, he says nothing. He can't react. The numbness is all encompassing before his fingers begin to tremble. There's no air in his lungs, nothing but a whimper that dies with the knowledge that his brother is gone. 

He hangs his head as Glenn tries to explain in halting words that they'd only found Merle's right hand and a bloodied hacksaw, that the blood trail had ended inside the office building not far from where he'd been chained, and even as he hears the words, he can't truly believe them. His arm raises, crossbow still grasped in his fingers, and he shakes as he tries to aim it at T-Dog, but there's no desire to see it through, and he lets his arm fall slack once more. 

A tear runs out from under his eyelid, and he ducks his head, wishing he could hide his face. 

"We...we looked for him, I swear we did, but..."

Daryl turns away, but the loss is staggering, taking him nearly to his knees. He keens under his breath, tuning them all out. Merle, oh but it hurts, Merle, damn it, damn him for suggesting this camp in the first place, damn them for doing this to his brother, damn Merle for leaving him again. 

He expects to see the tent ripped open like the ones he can see on the pathway. The quiet woman's husband lies half in, half out of their tent, his corpse mauled almost beyond recognition. He steps over the bodies mechanically, picking his way down to his camp site. That the tent is still standing, though it leans to one side, means nothing to him, not when there's blood and gore coating the dusty ground, not when Charlotte's preferred blankie is covered in crimson streaks. He stumbles over his duffel bag, mangled sobs caught in his throat at the sight of the overturned cradle through the rip in the tent door frame 

"No..." he whispers, tears coursing down his cheeks. "No..." 

As if in a dream, he parts the tent opening, his boots plodding through the tangles of blankets and sleeping bags as twisted about as if a tornado had come through. He tries to call her name, a croak that can't form on his lips, and his eyes are so blurred with tears that he can hardly see, and there's a wild scream of her name building in his lungs as he rips up a handful of sheets. The tears pour then, and he's racing through the blankets, sobbing harshly, until he hears the sweetest sound, the unhappy wail of a baby caught between boxes of supplies and the far wall of the tent. 

He claws at the boxes, throwing them clear across the tent frantically, chanting her name as he spots the tiny tufts of blonde hair under the jumbled mess. Her sobs fade in comparison to the ones coming from him as he rocks her in his arms, silently weeping. 

She's alive, bruised and afraid, but alive. 

-

When the last of the Walkers are burnt, and the bodies of the camp members buried in graves, Rick gathers the survivors to have a discussion about where to head next. There's a heated disagreement between Shane and Rick over where to go, one that ends in the decision to go to the CDC in hopes of finding answers about the outbreak and much needed supplies. 

Daryl listens but offers no input. His thoughts are with Merle. If he leaves with them, Merle wouldn't know where to find him, if he even made it out of the city. It hurts to even think it, the idea of leaving hurts, but he can't stay alone, this much he knows. Charlotte's near brush with the Walkers that had nearly collapsed the tent during the ambush notwithstanding, he's sure that there's more safety in numbers. As uneasy as following these strangers make him, he knows that they'll protect his daughter if he can't. 

He packs the last of their belongings, doing his best to not shudder when he sees the bloody fingerprints that mar Charlotte's blankie. He refuses to share a vehicle with the others, pointedly ignoring them until he's in his truck, Charlotte tucked safely into her sling on his chest. He watches the procession of vehicles, the sun gleaming off the water in the quarry, another summer day if not for the faint curls of smoke that still rise from their burnt Walker pile. 

He sighs, and turns the ignition key, and the pang of loss echos, aching deep within. Charlotte coos softly, her tiny hand brushing the edge of Daryl's jaw and he smiles a bit at her. "Jus' me an' you now, sweetheart," he murmurs as he steers the truck to follow Shane's jeep. She chirps in response, her coo easing the edge of his sorrow for a moment.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all those who've waited so patiently for this, I give you my deepest apologies. Real life often gets in the way, but to be honest, I struggled terribly with how to end this story. I had two endings in mind, but as much as I tried, neither seemed to be the perfect fit. Finally I comprised, and allowed the story to form as I wrote. I would have liked a complete happy ending, but that's not always the case, especially in the world of The Walking Dead. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has messaged me, given the story kudos, or bookmarked it. I am truly humbled by the response this little prompt has generated, and though a part of me would love to keep going, I think this is where it needs to end. Thank you again :) You guys are the reason I keep working away at this.


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